


Adjuring Unto Heaven

by rei_c



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Angelic Lore, Angels, Gen, Insanity, Pre-Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Religious Content, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-27
Updated: 2007-09-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7005121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Samhain, a new mission related to the seals threatens the tenuous peace Sam and Dean have carved out for themselves. Will this newest mission bring them together or will it break them apart forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel's gone when Sam finally sits down next to Dean. Most of the kids are gone, too, a quiet wafting out from the playground that doesn't seem natural. Not a lot has seemed natural since Dean woke up in that grave. 

"Uriel invaded the room," Sam says. Dean's heartbeat skitters. If that angel hurt Sam, threatened Sam or this town again, Dean's going to find a way to kill an angel, no question about it. Before he can ask, Sam says, "He told me to ask you about hell, about what you remember. But I'm not gonna bring it up until you tell me I can. That's not something I could force you into talking about." Sam looks down at his clasped hands, adds, quieter, "That's not something I'd ever force anyone into talking about."

Sometimes Dean forgets that Sam died as well; he's tried to forget that fact with enough determination that he usually can. Sam's been alone on earth, too, for four months this time, for weeks and weeks at the mercy of the Trickster before. Dean lasted three days, Sam's gone _months_. That one singular fact goes a long way toward explaining this new Sam, this Sam that Dean hardly recognises at times -- explains but by no means justifies.

Dean glances sideways, takes in his brother's tense jaw, hunched shoulders. Sam's watching the playground without seeing it. Sam's expression, pose, seems more honest than Sam's recently been. He looks. He looks like Castiel, full of doubt. 

"Why didn't you help me?" Sam asks. His voice is softer. "With Samhain. You just. You just stood there and watched."

He sounds like Castiel, too. 

Dean has no answer. 

\--

They pick up and pack up, drive out of the town before sunset. Dean doesn't want to hang around, not when he looks at the park, the streets, the motel, and can imagine everything gone, destroyed by Uriel like Sodom and Gomorrah. Sam doesn't argue. Sam looks tired; Dean should have asked how he's feeling after exorcising and killing a major demon. That he didn't is a reason to leave the music on low as the sun sets, to let Sam sleep through two state lines. 

When Dean can't go on any longer, he pulls into the parking lot of a small, run-down motel in rural Missouri and pays for a room. The woman behind the counter eyes him with tired intensity. It's not the look of a woman sizing up a man for a bed partner, more the type given by owners of motels in out-of-the-way places to men checking in at odd hours, as if they might be criminals, drug-runners, pushers. 

Dean gives her his most sincere smile, doesn't hide how exhausted he is, and, when asked how many beds, says, "Two queens, if you have 'em. My brother and me, we've been driving all day and night, trying to get out west. He conked out a couple states ago but I don't sleep in the car as well as he does." 

She smiles, tired but there, and slides over a room key without any hesitation. "You're the only ones here," she says. "We don't do nothing fancy for breakfast but if you've been driving all night, you won't need any, will ya?" 

"We'll probably sleep through it," Dean says, gives her a sheepish smile. "When's check-out?"

"Tell you what," she says. "It's normally ten but I ain't gonna charge you a whole night's worth for less than five hours. You can either stay until five tonight or I'll only ask half-rate extra if you wanna stay 'til check-out time tomorrow. Deal?" 

Dean's grin turns from sheepish to happily surprised. "Yes, ma'am. We'll be out by five. Maybe sooner, if m'brother has anything to say about it. Thanks." 

If Uriel was here, Dean'd be rubbing this in the angel's face. Probably a good thing he isn't. 

Dean waves as he leaves the office, drives down to a room halfway between the office and the end of the row, and pauses, looking at his brother. Sam doesn't pretend while he sleeps; more that he hasn't found a way, Dean thinks, than he doesn't want to. He looks tired, circles under his eyes that Dean hadn't noticed earlier, pain lines crinkling around the corners of his mouth. 

Guilt's becoming a familiar feeling but it digs its claws in a little deeper as Dean leans over and shakes Sam. "Got a couple beds," he says, quiet, as Sam's eyelids flutter open and a yawn cracks the bottom half of Sam's face in two. "C'mon, I'll get your bag. We have some time before we need to be out." 

Sam hums, stretches and hits a knee on the dash, his elbow on the window. Dean grins, bites back a laugh and gets out of the Impala. He opens the room first, lets it air a little as he turns on a light and then goes back around to grab the duffels out of the trunk. Sam's standing right there, duffel in each hand, and the fog, pre-dawn light, make Sam seem taller, more threatening. The thought comes and goes quickly, Dean kicking himself because Sam looks _anything_ but threatening, eyes still bleary, lips parted and face rumpled with sleep. 

"Dude, I said I'd get them," Dean says. Sam just tosses them to one side, moves around Dean with a grace that belies his size, and faceplants on to the bed farthest from the door. He's snoring within seconds, Dean watching. 

He went to hell for Sam. He'd do it again. He just hadn't realised that Sam's been living in his own type of hell. 

\--

Dean wakes up, teeth caught around a scream, sometime around noon. His first reaction is to put a hand on his heart, let it slide down his chest, feeling for wounds. Once his mind realises he's fine, his second reaction is to look over at Sam, to make sure that Sam's still sleeping, is all right. 

Sam isn't in bed. 

Dean swipes the gun from under his pillow, is halfway glad he didn't even bother to take his boots off before laying across the top of the bed earlier that morning. He stands, does a quick look around the room to make sure Sam hasn't just gotten up to go and piss, then throws open the door. The sunlight blinds him momentarily, enough to turn everything a dazzling white. Dean doesn't panic but it's a close thing, doesn't know why the colour of the light has that effect on him, and once he catches his breath, he freezes. 

Sam's staring at him. Dean leans back, places the gun down inside of the room and out of sight, then comes out and stares back at his brother. Sam's in a different pair of jeans, a different t-shirt. There are a couple buckets on the ground, a cloth in Sam's hand, and the Impala is gleaming. 

"I," Sam starts to say. He stops when Dean shakes his head, leans back against the wall next to the door. 

"Next time you're planning on washing the car, would you tell me?" Dean asks. 

Sam's grin is bright and all-encompassing like the sun. His hair curls around his ears, shirt damp in a few places, and he sounds like a little kid. "Sorry? You were sleeping and I didn't. I just thought it needed it."

Dean steps forward, eyes the car and then nods his head in approval. "It did, but that doesn't mean you need to wash it by hand. Especially when you should be sleeping." 

Like a cloud going over the sun, Sam's expression fades, starts to close off. The light in his eyes dims and Dean wants to kick himself. Sam turns his back to Dean, rubs at a spot on the hood. "Woke up," he says, plain and simple, but there are a wealth of words, dozens of meanings, behind the explanation. Dean isn't sure which ones he's supposed to be deciphering. 

"Should've woken me up, too," he says, mildly. "We could be halfway through Kansas by now." 

"I slept in the car," Sam replies. "You didn't."

Sure, Sam slept in the car, but it wasn't an easy sleep, nor a deep one. Six hours in a bed shouldn't be enough to make Sam feel well-rested, not after the last few days, not after whatever he did with Samhain. Dean knows how his brother sleeps; Sam practically collapsed onto the bed this morning. That usually means he's ready to sleep for twelve hours. Something woke Sam up. 

Dean thinks about pressing but doesn't. His dream has fallen off of him but it lingers. Uriel told Sam to ask about Dean's memories of hell. Sam hasn't and told Dean he won't. As much as Dean hates it, he'll respect that and return the trust in kind. 

"Well," he finally says, "we have the room until five tonight. We can either try and catch another couple hours of shut-eye or we can get clean and get back on the road. Your call." 

They're on the road an hour later.

\--

Sam's done something with his phone and computer that Dean doesn't think is _quite_ legal but it means they get a wireless signal even when they're driving through the middle of nowhere. Sam's been browsing news sites for an hour, trying to find a case out this way, something that justifies the cross-country trip but it doesn't look like he's putting much effort into it. He has something on his mind, that much is easy to see. Dean doesn't know what, whether Sam's thinking about whatever woke him up -- probably a nightmare -- or something else. 

Once they pass Dumas, Texas, Dean finally turns the music down and says, "Spit it out." Sam looks over, startled at the noise after so many hours without talk, and Dean adds, "Whatever you're thinking about. What is it? Come on, there's not a lot of scenery around here."

"You say that every time we drive through Texas," Sam replies. "Even when it isn't true. And I'm not thinking about anything."

Dean can't help the laugh. "You, not thinking? Sam, the world would be ending."

"In case you missed it," Sam mutters, "the world kind of _is_." Dean winces, searches for something to say. Before he can find any words, much less the right words, Sam says, "Sorry. I didn't mean anything. I think I'm just tired of being in the car. Maybe we could stop soon?"

In the two months since Dean's been back, Sam's never _once_ said a word about being tired of the car. He's never once complained. Hell, he's been the one pushing for new hunts, for things to keep them both busy. It's made Dean wonder about what kind of schedule Sam kept by himself, what he was like when he was the only Winchester on the planet. Dean's too scared to ask but curious as fuck to know. 

This complaining is kind of reassuring in that regard and it's not like they have anywhere to be. None of the potential hunts Sam's found have piqued either of their attention and Texas is huge, not to mention boring. 

"Dalhart?" Dean asks. Sam doesn't disagree. 

\--

The motel they end up at doesn't look like it does much business apart from rodeo weekend in August. Dean's okay with that, thinks the room's decor -- nothing but cowboys, steers, and horseshoes -- is hilarious but fits the room and the town better than half of the other places they stay at. They stay long enough to unload their duffels and salt and ward the room, then head out to a bar. Fast food and gas station convenience stores are fine for a while but they're in Texas and Dean's craving barbecue. 

The bar's busy, loud, has a mechanical bull in the corner that Dean's sure is going to get some use later on. Sam blinks at the crowd but then says something under his breath that sounds like, 'Oh, Saturday,' as if he'd forgotten. Dean gives his brother a concerned look but when Sam shakes it off, he reaches out, smacks Sam's shoulder, and says, "Find us a table, bitch." 

A couple guys breezing past them snicker and Dean turns to look at them, eyebrow raised. "One in the back corner," one of the guys says. "Can't see it from out here, but it's empty."

Dean holds the look a moment longer, lets it drop and smiles, says, "Hey, thanks," to them before telling Sam, "Go hold the table, little brother. I'll get us some beer." When Dean turns back to the two guys, they're gone, out the door. Sam looks as though he's smelled something sour but he strides off, cutting through the crowd like it isn't even there. Dean watches his brother go, finally shakes himself and heads for the bar. 

It doesn't take long to grab two beers and flirt a little. Dean's grinning as he tracks down Sam, sets the mugs on the table with a thump. "Dude, we've only got an hour before they turn on the bull." He sits down in the chair, groans as he stretches out, and lifts the glass to his lips before looking at his brother. 

Sam's face looks pinched, tired. His hands are curled around the mug and even in this light, Dean thinks Sam's knuckles have turned white with pressure. 

"Hey," Dean says, kicking Sam under the table until Sam looks up at him. "You okay?"

The answer is very obviously 'no' but Sam takes a swallow of beer and says, "Yeah, fine. Headache, that's all." 

There's something about that casual admittance that worries Dean. He just can't put his finger on it. 

\--

They leave before it gets too crazy and after Dean's netted an easy three hundred bucks from a few games of pool, Sam watching from a different table. Dean's had a few beers and done some shots, has reached the point where his bones and muscles feel like they fit his skin and his skin feels like it fits _him_ , aware of his heavy physicality but still in control of it. Sam's been nursing the same couple beers all night, hasn't even lost the pained lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes. 

Dean lets Sam drive the couple blocks to the motel, lets Sam unlock the door to their room. Sam steps back and Dean guesses Sam's just being weird again and wants Dean to get in before anything embarrassing happens. Guesses and guesses wrong, because when Dean steps inside, he sees two figures outlined by the light from outside. Every edge of his buzz instantly dissipates. 

Castiel's sitting on the edge of Sam's bed and Uriel is standing with his back to them, looks as though he's studying a print on the wall. Both of them are wearing the same clothes, still. 

"Tumbleweed that interesting?" Dean asks, walking inside and making sure Sam does as well, leaving the door open. "'Cause if it is, you can buy a hundred copies of that exact same painting down at the mall." 

Uriel turns around, gives Castiel a look that Dean's seen from Sam so many times it nearly takes his breath away. Uriel doesn't say anything, though, simply strides over to the table and sits in one of the rickety chairs, back straight and shoulders tense. 

Dean looks at his brother, waits until Sam blinks, before asking Uriel, "Okay, why are you guys here? We weren't expecting you for another five, six days." 

"You're on your way to Las Vegas," Uriel says. 

"Actually, we weren't," Dean replies. He suddenly has a _really_ bad feeling about this. He glances at Sam, sees his brother's jaw as tight as Sam's shoulders. 

Castiel mirrors Dean's look at Sam with one of his own at Uriel before turning back to the Winchesters. "We would appreciate it if you would," the angel says. Uriel, Dean thinks, hates that they have to ask. "There is something we would request of you." 

Dean crosses his arms. "Go ahead and ask. But if you don't level with me right away, we're out of here and heading to Maine. Got it? No lies like last time." Dean doesn't think until after he says that; he never told Sam what Castiel admitted to him in the park. Still, Sam doesn't move, doesn't react. With the angels here, Sam's turned into little more than a breathing statue. It's such a change from Sam's first meeting with Castiel that Dean aches to see it. 

"There is a female," Castiel says, speaking right away as if he anticipated Dean's demand. "She is being held prisoner by Lilith in Las Vegas. We would like you to rescue her." 

Dean flinches at Lilith's name and Sam starts, opens his mouth then shuts it with a near-audible clack of teeth. Dean doesn't know what Sam's thinking, what Sam had been about to say, but his feelings about this are pretty strong already. "We're not doing it," he says. "No way." He can feel Sam's eyes on him, turns and says, " _No_ , Sam. She still wants to kill you and I." Dean stops, has a split-second memory of blood and screams and terror, shakes his head. "No." 

Sam holds Dean's gaze then breaks it, turns to Uriel, asks, "Who is she? And why us? You want to save her, you can go do it yourselves." A bitter laugh and Sam adds, "You were ready to level a town before. That _was_ for a demon, though. Humans aren't worth enough to save if a major demon's on the loose but we're good enough if Lilith's holding someone?" 

Uriel stands up, faster than a human with the sound of wings rushing to fill in a vacuum. " _Humans_ are _nothing_ ," Uriel hisses. "I am." 

"Close to blasphemy," Castiel cuts Uriel off. Uriel vibrates with fury and Castiel doesn't move for a long second, the four all frozen until Castiel turns his head slowly, _too_ slowly, and looks not at Uriel, but at Sam. "We are aware of everything you did in order to rescue your brother, the lengths you went to, the nightmares you had of his fate. We know your deepest desires and we are more than aware of your actions in the town you fled from. You had mercy for them, Sam Winchester, and were prepared to willingly sacrifice yourself and your eternal future to prevent the walking of Samhain on this earth. For a female caught in Lilith's clutches, would you not gainsay yourself the way you did for that town?" Castiel pauses, adds, "For the way you did for Dean? Would you not feel the same?"

"No," Sam says. The answer comes quickly. Dean frowns, doesn't understand what Castiel's talking about or how Sam can be so blank, so emotionless. "And I'm sure you know why." 

Castiel gives Sam a little nod and looks at the floor. He must be thinking and he must reach some kind of conclusion because Castiel nods again, stands up and steps closer to Sam. Dean does as well. He doesn't trust Castiel, not with Sam. His heart rate increases as Castiel's eyes flick to him, pierce him to the bone, then leave with an element of dismissal lurking around their edges. Castiel's never looked at him like that before. Whatever's going on here, it can't be good. 

"As I said, we are aware of that," Castiel admits. 

The room is silent. Uriel finally steps forward and says, "If they refuse to help us, we'll find others who will. Come, Castiel. We waste time that can be better spent." 

"No, no," Dean says, eyes flicking between the two angels. Something doesn't feel right here and if there's one thing Dean's learned to trust, it's his instincts in regards to these two. "Tell us why you need humans to help you." 

"We cannot enter the house," Castiel says. "Nor interfere. If humans will open the doors, we will be beside them but our presence must abide by the rules." 

Dean raises an eyebrow, parrots back, "Rules." 

Castiel looks at Uriel and the two angels part around Sam and Dean, head for the door. "I'm sure that Sam can enlighten you," Uriel says as they leave. "We will return in a few hours to hear your decision." There's no doubt, judging from the look on Uriel's face, what decision the angel expects to hear. 

\--

With the angels gone, the tension in the room decreases enough to notice, not enough to be comfortable. Secrets get spilled, or at least highlighted, every time an angel shows up; this is no exception. Sam could ask about Dean's immediate response to Lilith and Dean, there are so many things Dean could ask. 

"Tell me about these rules," Dean says. The rest can wait, especially knowing that Uriel's coming back eventually. 

Sam sighs, sits in the chair Uriel was occupying, slouches back and toes off his shoes, shrugs off his coat. "I'm not exactly sure," Sam says. He tilts his head backwards, looks at the ceiling. "There was something in one of the books I went through when you." Sam stops, abrupt. Dean can see Sam's Adam's apple move as Sam swallows. "I don't know where it is but I took decent notes. I can find it pretty quick. I think." 

"You think -- what?" Dean asks. It's a rare thing when Sam can't pin down a source from memory. "Is that going somewhere or are you saying you went through that much stuff?"

The lack of an answer is answer enough. Dean bites his lip and swallows back every word he wants to say, nearly chokes on all of the words he doesn't want anywhere near his mouth. He shakes his head and sits down on the bed, bends down and undoes the laces on his boots, pulls them off and throws them in the corner. The noise they make, hitting the carpet, is loud in the otherwise silent room. 

"Right," Dean says. "Okay. Where do we start looking?" 

" _We_ don't do anything," Sam says. He sits up, then stands, goes through the backpack and pulls out his hunter's journal, something Sam started keeping in the months when Dean was gone. Dean's peeked through it a couple times and hasn't understood much. The first section's copied from their father's journal, all of the things they learned added in, and the second's about other hunts, the new stuff. The last section, none of which Dean remembers, must have been what Sam either hunted or found out during the four months Dean was in hell. 

That in itself wouldn't be so bad but Sam's a scholar. He's always liked the books better than hunting, preferred dusty old libraries to trampling through a forest in the middle of the night tracking down pixies. Sam's found a lot of sources, a lot of random shit, and he's interested in _all_ of it. Dean's convinced that Sam knows a little about everything, except demons. When it comes to demons, Sam knows way more than Dean feels strictly comfortable with. 

"It gonna be in there?" Dean asks. 

"If it isn't," Sam answers, "we'll be in trouble. I kept records but there's so much. I think it's here, though, or else in that folder." Dean gets up, grabs the folder that they've been keeping all of the angel research in, and starts going through it slowly even after Sam tells him not to bother. He's about to ask what he's looking for but Sam says, giving up on keeping Dean out of it, "There'll be a note, something like angelic hierarchies or procedures. I _think_ it's a de Angeliis but I could be wrong." 

Not likely, so Dean skims for de Angeliis, doesn't find it. Sam does, taps a page of his journal and then goes for the laptop, pulls something up. "Here it is," he says. Dean moves, stands behind Sam and reads over Sam's shoulder, something his brother hates but never calls him on. Sam points out the relevant section on the laptop screen but summarises for Dean anyway. "They can't interfere. They can instruct humans but there's a strict policy that they can't get involved. It has a lot to do with the reasons Lucifer fell, way back when."

"What does that mean for this?" Dean asks. 

Sam shrugs, says, "I'm not sure, but I can guess. We'll have to get in the house by ourselves, neutralise any demons there by ourselves. Same with dealing with people, any ghosts, windows, lights, you name it. Any doors that have to be opened, that's you. All the angels can do is be there." 

Dean hums, sits back down on the bed and thinks about that. "Why can't you open the door?" Dean asks. 

Sam drops his eyes. He looks ashamed. "What Castiel said, that humans will have to open the door." 

He stops there and Dean feels furious. "What," he says, "Azazel bleeds into your mouth when you're too young to stop him and suddenly you don't count as fucking _human_ anymore?" 

"Something like that," Sam says. He's quiet, turned inwards. 

"I hate to say this," Dean says, "but I'm not exactly pure myself, Sam."

Sam shrugs. "You're still human, though. You're not." Sam cuts himself off, cheeks flushed as he looks away. "Whatever you did in hell, you're still human. I don't count. I'm." 

Dean frowns, eyes narrowed, and says, "You're _what_ , Sam." 

Another shrug. Sam's not going to say anything and as much as Dean wants to throttle his brother right now, Uriel's coming back. Lilith's holding a woman in Vegas. It'll be him and Sam against her and however many demons she has in her entourage for the sake of one woman. 

One stinking human woman. 

"I wish I knew who she was," he says. Anyone else might ask what the hell Dean's talking about but Sam nods once, clearly following the trail of Dean's thoughts. "Though I guess that doesn't matter to angels." 

"I think it matters," Sam says. "Else they wouldn't be looking for someone to go and get her."

"Either way," Dean says, "I don't think this is a good idea. Actually, I know this isn't a good idea. This is a very, very _bad_ idea." 

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, twists in the chair to look at Dean. "What choice do we have?" he asks quietly. "Can we really afford to refuse them?" 

Dean opens his mouth, shuts it again. Unfortunately, Sam has a point. Dean hates it when Sam has points. 

\--

Uriel comes back by himself. It's been an hour since the angel left, a few minutes since Sam shot down Dean's most recent argument against this whole thing. The knock on the door isn't a surprise but both of them tense up. Dean's hand reaches out for a gun even though he knows its useless against the angels; the security of it, the weight in his hands, that's all he's looking for. 

Sam opens the door; not Dean's choice but Sam moves faster than Dean does. Uriel sneers and asks, standing outside, "Well?" 

"We'll do it," Dean says. Sam moves to the side so that Uriel can see around him, can see Dean. "But we wanna know what we're getting ourselves into. It's only fair, right?" 

As soon as he says that, he knows he's made a mistake. A shadow crosses Uriel's face and Castiel is nowhere to be seen. There's no one here to hold Uriel back and the angel looks pissed. 

"Fair?" Uriel says, the words delivered quietly even though the feeling behind them is anything but. " _Fair_? You speak to me of fairness?" The angel takes a deep breath, disgust in his eyes as he looks between both Sam and Dean. "You know nothing of fair. You, _you_ , speak to _me_ of fairness? A child of demons and one who went to hell, who." 

Dean's eyes narrow. He moves forward, cuts Uriel off with his actions instead of using words. 

Uriel smiles, dismissive, and glances at Sam. "I told you to ask him," the angel says, "and he would not deny you an answer to your question." 

Dean's heart races but Sam stands next to him, presses against him. Sam's warm, a solid wall at Dean's side, not letting any space show between them as he says, "I'm not an ass." 

Dean snorts. 

"If I had the choice," Uriel hisses, "I wouldn't tell you a thing about this." 

"But you don't have a choice," Dean guesses. "So tell us what we want to know and then you can get the hell away from us, like you want." 

Uriel doesn't deny it. "The female is being held upstairs. You will enter through the front door. Lilith will most likely be present as well as two, perhaps more, of her followers, humans willingly possessed by those owing allegiance to her. Your knife will work on them, as will holy water and the rites of exorcism." 

Sam's looking at Uriel, an undecipherable expression on his face. 

"They'll have hellhounds," Uriel adds, almost dismissive. 

Dean's stomach shifts and he swallows down acid, mouth suddenly dry. One hand's halfway to his chest before he realises what he's doing. Sam's watching him, eyes shadowed, face pale, expression giving nothing else away. Dean forces his hand down, makes himself smile. "And how are we supposed to get around _them_?" Dean asks. The bravado in his voice is nothing more than barely-disguised horror but it sounds good enough. "Last I checked, the things are invisible." 

Uriel's smile looks more like a grimace. He looks at Sam, says, " _You_ won't have any difficulty seeing them. It wouldn't do for one of hell's own children to be ignorant of hell's denizens, after all." Dean bares his teeth; Uriel's gaze as it flicks to him is unimpressed. "As for you, Dean Winchester. You will also be capable of seeing them." 

"What?" Dean says, flinching. "How?"

"Castiel and I will join you once you've gained access to the house," Uriel goes on. "The sooner you do this, the better." 

The angel turns to leave. Dean moves to follows, starts to say, "You can't just drop something like that and leave," but Uriel disappears into the darkness and Dean's left standing outside of the room, confused and unwilling to plumb the depths of his fear. He waits, watches, but eventually turns back to Sam. 

"Vegas," Sam says. "Seems we were heading in the right way after all." 

They leave the next morning.

\--

Sam has his head buried in a translated copy of _The Art of Commanding Spirits_ but his fingertips are pressed against his forehead and his eyes are scrunched up at the corners. It's a clear sign that Sam's nursing a killer headache and why he's still reading, Dean doesn't know. 

"I need to stop at a drugstore somewhere?" he asks, mildly, even though they have a boatload of painkillers in the trunk. 

"Hmm? Oh," Sam says, looking up and wincing as his eyes adjust to the light streaming in from outside. "No, I'm fine. Just, y'know. Grimoires. No one's ever really clear about what they mean."

Dean's not sure whether to take that as a general statement or something aimed at him. He doesn't say anything until Sam looks down again, preparing to delve into what Bobby called 'one of the nastiest pieces of black magic Levi ever edited' when he gave it to them. 

"What happened with Samhain. I'm sorry 'bout that," Dean says. Sam looks up and at Dean so fast that Dean's worried about his brother getting whiplash. "I wasn't. I mean, I didn't expect you to. But I'm glad. I mean, you're still alive. That's. You know. That's good." 

Sam's frowning again. It's better than the lost look he had back in the town after Dean's conversation with Castiel. 

Dean clears his throat, doesn't look at Sam. "I'm just saying. Maybe next time, you hold the demons and I get them with the knife. Okay?" 

"Okay," Sam says. His tone is soft, half-amazed. 

\--

They go in with holy water, a demon-killing knife, and Latin already on their lips. True to Uriel's recon, there are two demons and a pair of hellhounds just inside the door; Sam dumps a bucket of holy water on the hounds and Dean uses the knife on the closest demon. The air fills with the sound of canine whimpering and the smell of sulphur as the second demon attacks Dean and knocks the knife from his hand. 

"C'mon, you son of a bitch," Dean says, even as the demon throws him against the wall. A hound skitters, too fast for Dean to stop, and darts forward, bites him on the leg. Dean howls, kicks the hound away with his uninjured leg. The demon laughs and Dean braces himself for a rush but the demon stops five feet away from him and looks panicked. Once glance at Sam shows that Sam's focused on _something_ ; Dean sighs, picks up the knife and jams it in the demon's stomach. 

"Thanks," Sam says, bending over to catch his breath. Dean limps over, grabs Sam's chin and forces his brother's face up. "'M fine," Sam adds, even as Dean's wiping blood off from the skin under Sam's nose. 

Dean snorts but doesn't argue, not when his leg aches like death. He rips a sleeve of his shirt off, bends down and ties it around the wound, tries to staunch the bleeding. It smells rancid, already infected, and it'll be torture to clean out once they have time. Sam drops to a knee, puts his hand over the bite, and does something, _pulls_. Black ichor runs down Dean's leg like water and Sam's wincing. 

When the stream stops, one or two drops coming out every ten seconds or so, Dean pushes his brother away, helps Sam get up. The hounds are starting to regroup and Dean can feel them eye him like a favourite meal they haven't had in years. Rather than stick around and wait, Dean practically throws Sam into the next room, slams the door behind them and locks it, hears the hounds thump against the door a moment later. Dean takes a deep breath, tries to ignore the phantom feeling of claws ripping him open. 

"I'll be fine," Dean says, compartmentalising the pain away, pushing it to the back of his mind, something to worry about later. Sam gives him a look, one of those concerned ones that Dean hasn't seen many of after Sam left for Stanford, has seen more of over the last year and a half. Sam shakes his head but doesn't say anything; Dean ignores the look, the worry behind the expression, and stands a little straighter, forces a brighter smile across his lips as he glances around the room they're in. 

They're actually in a hallway; this is odd architecture for a modern city, reminds Dean more of something convoluted from the East Coast: formal entry room, hallway, doorways leading off into every direction like a funhouse. The hall's bright with natural light from a large window at the other end, no ornamentation or furniture cluttering up the floor, walls off-white and empty. Still, it _feels_ dark, like something unspeakably evil has happened in this place, is happening even now. Dean thinks of hell and gets chills. 

A brush of wings behind them and Uriel taunts, "Too scared to go further?" 

Dean bristles but Sam shoots him a glance, shakes his head just enough for Dean to see. Yeah, Dean knows that arguing with Uriel gets them less than nothing but he can't help it, not with Uriel's attitude. Sam's gotten along with Uriel barely better than he ever got along with their father; the fact that Sam's trying to calm him instead of the other way around is a little off, just like what they're doing is a _little_ off. 

"We should not tarry," Castiel says. Dean hadn't heard Castiel join them but he shouldn't be surprised; where one angel appears, the other definitely does _not_ fear to tread. The angel stands to Dean's left, looks up the stairs and adds, "She is still upstairs. We have waited long enough." 

\--

The steps are loud under Dean's feet and crack like kindling. Every step Dean takes sends pain shooting up his leg. The hounds are baying downstairs, throwing themselves against doors and walls, going crazy. Dean swallows, following Castiel; Sam's behind Dean, Uriel bringing up the rear. As annoying as the angels can be, it's kind of nice to have them as back-up right now. 

Six doorways lead off from the top hallway; every single door is closed. Dean hesitates once he's on the second floor but Castiel doesn't, heads unerringly for the fifth doorway in. Dean glances back at Sam, frowns when he sees a strange look on Sam's face, one Dean can't break down into understandable parts. Sam's eyes are narrowed but not from anger, more like confusion. He looks as though he's trying to figure something out but there's a sheen to his eyes that Dean remembers from the first few visions Sam had, when Sam hadn't yet learned to ignore the pain or transmute it or whatever it is Sam does now. 

"Dude," he hisses, eyes flicking to take in Uriel, behind them, waiting impatiently. "What is it? Is that from holding the demon downstairs? Tell me you didn't try exorcising it, we _talked_ about this, Sam." 

"I'm fine," Sam says, clearing his face of any expression. "And it's not from the demons. We should get moving."

Dean isn't happy but doesn't push the issue. If they weren't here, getting ready to open that door, he'd think twice about it. He gives Sam one more searching look, hopes his brother realises they'll be discussing this later, then walks over to the fifth doorway. Castiel's waiting for him. 

"I cannot open the door, Dean," Castiel says. "And neither can your brother. It must be done by your hand." 

Dean knows this. Castiel's already told him twice and Uriel asked him again, this morning, if he'd be brave enough to do it. One last look at Sam, then Uriel, who looks like he's about to roll his eyes, before Dean takes a deep breath and turns the handle. The door swings open slowly, too slowly, creaking like a bad horror movie. Dean fights to hold his ground when he sees a girl inside, wavy blonde hair, white dress, big blue eyes. She's standing between Dean and the bed, smiles when she notices him. 

"Dean! Oh, I've missed you, Dean," she says. Sam steps forward; Dean holds out his arm, half to protect Sam, half to hold Sam back, as his other hand clenches into a fist around his gun. "And you brought Sam with you, how nice! We can all play together now."

"They did not come for you," Castiel says, stepping into the room, standing on the other side of Dean. Lilith hisses, steps back when she sees the angel. As Uriel moves forward as well, Lilith drops the pretense and scowls at the four, eyes turning white. "And you know it well. Begone from this place, Lilith. Our quarrel with you will hold until its proper time." 

Lilith snarls, a strange expression coming from such an innocent-looking girl and one that Dean's bones remember even if his mind's done all it can to repress the memories. "She's broken, angel," Lilith snaps out. "You won't ever be able to fix her. She's broken and the seal _will_ follow her to hell. You're trying to stop something that can't be stopped." She pauses, adds with a mocking grin in Dean's direction, "And you're using such _interesting_ creatures. A boy with demon blood and a soul we rightly bargained for. Are you sure your _God_ approves?"

"A soul you rightly bargained for," Castiel says, "and one you took. It is not our fault you could not anchor him to your will." 

"Go from here, demon," Uriel adds, voice low and rumbling out from his chest. "And take your hounds with you." 

Lilith looks between them, finally smiles. "I'm not doing this because you're _ordering_ me," she says, the grin eating her lips. Lilith sashays closer to Dean, an odd movement for someone that looks so young, and reaches up, places a finger on Dean's chest. She has to stand on her tip-toes. Dean doesn't flinch but it's close. Lilith murmurs playfully, "I'm doing this 'cause I want to. And you know what I'm like when I want something, don't you, Dean?" 

Castiel moves at the same time that Sam does, one of them as expressionless as always, the other furious. Lilith laughs, floods out of the host's mouth. For a split-second, Dean sees his brother shift, as if he's going to try and hold her, but then it passes and Sam catches the little girl as she collapses to the floor. Dean crouches down, has to swallow before he can bring himself to touch her but checks her pulse, shakes his head. Sam lets out a breath. 

"She's been dead for a while," Uriel says. "Ignore her." 

"We came for another purpose," Castiel adds, though Dean can't tell whether his words were said in agreement with Uriel or to convince himself that nothing could have been done. 

The angels flank Dean as he and Sam walk to the bed. When Dean sees the woman lying there, he looks at Castiel, can't help asking, "Why the fuck did you let this go on for so long? _How_ could you?"

The air of sorrow lingering around Castiel fades at the accusation. The angel lays blue eyes on Dean, says, "We were charged to wait until she called for aid," he says, "and until you were ready. We are here now. Pray it is enough." 

Sam's unlocking the cuffs on the woman's right side, is almost done in the time it takes Dean to glare at Castiel and turn back to the task at hand. Dean goes to the woman's left, picks the locks on the handcuffs, then the cuffs holding her ankle to the foot of the bed, legs spread. The woman murmurs when Dean touches her, stills when Sam does. The two exchange a glance over her prone body, both of them shrugging. 

With the cuffs undone, tossed to one side, Dean takes a closer look at the woman, studies her carefully. She's naked, skinny enough that Dean can almost count each of her ribs, but her brown hair is clean and shining in the light. There are burns and cuts all over her body, bruises as well, and the skin around her wrists, ankles, and throat has been rubbed raw. She has a black eye, a split lip, and a row of holes pierced into her right ear. Dean has no idea what those are meant to be, doesn't care about them in the grand scheme of how abused this woman has been. 

"I think it's time you told us who she is," Dean says, staring down at her. 

Sam freezes on the other side of the bed; Dean doesn't know why until he sees blood dripping out of his brother's nose. All thoughts of the woman are gone and Dean rushes around the bed, catches his brother under the arms as Sam drops to his knees. 

"Sandalphon," Sam murmurs, face scrunched up in pain. The woman flinches, reaction to the word, Dean guesses, and shifts a moment later. Her hand falls off of the bed, rests against Sam's stomach. "Her name. That's her name, Sandalphon." Sam screams, just once, a sound of pain and torture that Dean's never heard from his brother's mouth before, then stops, buries his face in his hands, body shaking. 

Dean doesn't understand, looks up at Castiel and sees that the normally blank face has turned even more unreadable. No help from that quarter, so Dean looks at Uriel, demands, "What kind of name is that? What the hell is going on." 

Uriel looks displeased. Normally, Dean would be all over whatever has the angel looking like someone just stole his flaming sword but when it comes to Sam? He'd rather have everyone behaving like normal even if that means they're trying to kill his brother. 

"Something we had not anticipated," Uriel admits, slowly. Uriel meets Castiel's eyes, Dean watching as the two of them communicate silently. Castiel bows his head, eyes dropping to the floor, and just when Dean thinks that means Castiel lost whatever argument they're having, Uriel says, "But I will abide until we can be certain. Safeguard her carefully, Dean Winchester. I will go prepare a place for her to recover."

"And for you to rest," Castiel adds, staring at Uriel even though Dean knows that the angel's talking to him. He wants to argue, say that he doesn't need any rest, but he shifts on his feet and the hellhound bite twangs, sends an ache up his leg and right to his chest. Dean resists the urge to feel for other bites, for long furrows and gaping wounds, but only barely. 

Castiel nods and Uriel leaves. Dean's watching them but when Sam moves, Dean's attention goes back to his brother. Sam's reaching up to the woman and Dean tries to get him to stop. "No," Sam says, fighting Dean's hold. "She's waking up. Sandalphon's waking up. I need to be there."

Dean lets go of his brother, helps Sam sit on the edge of the bed. He feels his stomach clench as Sam reaches out, runs the back of one finger down the woman's cheek. Castiel steps closer, watching, and as if she can feel the angel's presence, the woman opens her eyes. 

"Sandalphon," Castiel says. The angel places his hand on the woman's ankle, jerks it back as she mewls in pain. Castiel's brow furrows just enough to see and he tilts his head, tells Dean, "See if she will allow your touch." 

She doesn't. The only person she lets touch her is Sam. 

Dean really, really doesn't like this. 

\--

Sandalphon's too weak to move herself, looks like she's too weak to talk. She does try to say a few things but the words are disjointed and don't make any sense. Dean can't make heads or tails of her murmurs and neither can Castiel, judging by the way the angel's eyes have darkened. Castiel stands there and looks powerless, something that Dean can't turn away from, feeling pity and horror at the same time. 

Dean's looking around for clothes when Sandalphon says, "Sixty-three and the colour's all _wrong_ ," barely loud enough for Dean to hear. He stops, looks over at her. 

Sam turns to Dean and says, "I think," in a halting tone, though Dean's not sure why Sam's hesitating. "The third door we passed. They keep clothes in there that'll fit her. I think." 

"I don't even want to know how you know that," Dean mutters after a moment where all he can do is stare at his brother. He strides to the door, stops under the lintel, and looks back. Sam's watching Sandalphon as she beams up at him. Castiel's watching them both, solid and unmoving. 

\--

The clothes are where Sam said they'd be. Dean grabs a handful and takes them back to the room, skips a step when he doesn't see Castiel. 

"He left," Sam says, succinct as he rarely is. "Said to take her back to the room. Come on, hurry with those clothes." 

Dean shakes his head but goes back to the bed. He tries to help Sam get Sandalphon dressed but she cries every time Dean touches her. Sam ends up sliding white cotton panties up her legs and around her hips by himself, follows those with a plain cotton skirt, balances her against his body as he pulls a soft t-shirt over her head. Dean hasn't seen Sam with a girl since Madison, Sarah before that. The softness, the near-worship, it's not new; that's always been there, was even with Sam's prom date aeons ago. Dean doesn't remember this level of gentleness and grace, though. He wonders if Sam was this gentle with Jess, one more thing he'll never know about his brother. Dean's thought about asking from time to time but he never will. 

Sam cradles Sandalphon in his arms, carries her out of the house like a groom carrying a blushing bride across the threshold of their new home. The parallels echo in Dean's mind, stick in his throat. He tightens his grip on his gun, loosens it and looks around. The street is empty, one more thing wrong with this entire mission. 

At least the Impala's been left alone. 

\--

Uriel's waiting in front of the motel room. The angel's slouched against the door, hands in his pockets. 

"You realise you look suspicious like that, right?" Dean says once he's parked the car. He's got the door open, has one foot on the cement, but the Impala's still running and Sam hasn't moved except to roll down the window. "Someone's gonna think you're casing the joint." 

"Casing the joint," Uriel echoes flatly. "You humans have such strange methods of expressing yourself. God gave you the ability to speak and this is how you repay him, by desecrating his gift? _Casing the joint_?" 

Dean flushes, can't help it, even as Sam snorts and mutters something about the true desecration of language. Dean snaps, "Sam," without looking at his brother. Uriel's already convinced Sam's half a step from ending the world; it's better not to let Sam push Uriel no matter how much Dean wants to himself. "Why are you here?" Uriel opens his mouth but before he says anything, Dean says, "Here, as in outside the room. Why aren't you inside?" 

Uriel pushes himself off of the door, cuts the distance between the room and the parking spot in half. "We have secured a better location for Sandalphon's recovery. She will be happier there and the owners are," he pauses, says, "sympathetic to the situation. You will take her there." 

Dean looks over at Sam. Sam meets his eyes, breaks off to glance in the backseat, then looks back at Dean. "If the people there would understand better," Sam says, shrugging. "I have a feeling she'll be a handful. It would be easier if there weren't questions." 

The way Sam said that, Dean worries. Actually, Dean doesn't know why but the thought of Sam having a 'feeling' about this woman's recovery, that doesn't sit well with him. "A feeling or a _feeling_ feeling?" he asks. 

Sam shrugs again but the answer's written all over his face. Sam hasn't been so open with his expression since Dean came back, only shows Dean certain things at certain times. This, the look on Sam's face, it doesn't possess the calculated edge that most of the other looks hold. "I knew her name," Sam says. That doesn't answer the question but it isn't sidestepping it, either. 

"We need to get our stuff," Dean finally tells Uriel. They've just gotten the room the way they like it, feel settled. Dean doesn't want to leave, not when he has a good feeling about the neighbourhood, the way the people around them don't have much attention to spare for two drifter brothers. He will, though. With the look on Sam's face, he'll leave and the sooner the better. "And we'll need directions." 

One corner of Uriel's mouth jumps up, such a quick movement that Dean could be convinced he only imagined it. "They're inside," he says. " _Move_." 

Dean rolls his eyes, watches with one hand on his gun as Uriel walks to the corner of the building and turns around it, probably disappears. 

"That guy," he starts to say. 

"Angel," Sam says, opening the door, standing up. "That _angel_." 

Dean turns to look at his brother, see if Sam's wiped his face clean yet, says, "Yeah, okay, fine. That _angel_ , he's really asking for it. One of these days, man." 

Sam snorts. "Right," he drawls. He grimaces, looks halfway as though he's hearing something high-pitched and can't shake it off. "Now, how are we supposed to do this?" Sam asks, eyebrows still drawn together even if he _sounds_ all right. "I don't want to leave Sandalphon out here by herself but I don't want to carry her inside if it's only going to take ten minutes to clear the room out. I, uh." Sam ducks his head, doesn't look at Dean as he says, "I could go in and get everything. You know, so it's. I got used to it." 

Back almost two months and Sam still acts like he's alone. Dean aches, would rage against the universe if he thought it would make a difference, if he thought going to hell and leaving Sam in the first place wasn't worth it. But Sam, alive? Will _always_ be worth it. 

"Stay out here with your woman, Sammy," he says. "I'll grab the gear. Can't blame me if I leave your emo-girly shampoo behind though, deal?" 

It takes a beat more than Dean expected for Sam to say his name with that little-sibling exasperation Sam was born with.


	2. Chapter 2

Five hours later sees Dean pulling into a long driveway out in the middle of nowhere. He thinks they're still in Arizona but they drove north from Page; it's possible they crossed into Utah but, if so, they're barely straddling the state line. His leg aches but the hound was kind enough to leave his driving leg alone; even so, five hours is about the end of what he can stand. Despite this being Uriel's arrangement, Dean's kind of relieved to be arriving somewhere, not stuck in the car. 

The drive's lined with trees that make it hard to see what lies beyond but the house at the end, invisible from the street but getting much, much bigger, seems impressive. It's one of those old style homes, white, with big pillars and an American flag flying in the front garden, manicured flowerbeds, a big circle at the end of the drive. 

Dean's relief twists into something ugly. He doesn't like this place, the way it feels. 

He adjusts the rearview, sees Sandalphon still asleep. Sam is as well, face pressed against the glass of the passenger window and neck bent at an angle that looks painful. Dean parks in front of the house, sees a sign and mutters, "You have _got_ to be kidding me." 

The front door opens and a figure steps out, moves across the porch and down the stairs. Dean can't tell who it is at first but, as the person gets closer, Castiel's features come into focus. Dean gets out of the car, lets the door close without slamming, and says, "Maranatha Christian Retreat Center? Are you _insane_?" 

"The people who run this center are true and faithful," Castiel says. "As you have the potential to be, Dean." 

"Spare me the sermon," Dean says. "You would not _believe_ the drive I just had. Can we get this chick inside so Sam and I can get back on the road?" 

Castiel tilts his head. "You are welcome to rest here," he says. "But, for now, I ask that Sam take Sandalphon inside." 

Dean stares at Castiel for a couple beats, trying to decide what Castiel's playing at, but sighs, opens the door and leans inside. "Sammy, wake up. You gotta carry the girl inside." 

"We're here?" Sam asks, body waking up a lot faster than his mind. "Okay, I. Okay." He unfolds himself, would have opened the door right into Castiel if the angel hadn't moved back, started opening the back door. 

Giving Dean a quick glance, one Dean almost doesn't catch, Sam reaches in, picks up Sandalphon again. Sam doesn't act as though she weighs a thing, taking her up the stairs, disappearing out of Dean's sight with Castiel following like some kind of trained puppy. 

Dean doesn't usually like letting Sam go into new places by himself, especially when they're involved in a case, but he has to park the Impala and grab their gear. The offer of a room for the night is too good to pass up, especially with everything in Page closed as they drove through and the nearest place after that too far for this time of night. 

A woman's waiting for him when he takes the front stairs one at a time, leg aching with every jarring step. She looks normal enough but there's no telling anymore. Actually, Dean thinks, he can be sure she isn't an angel -- she looks much too excited to be a current host. 

"Can you tell me which way my brother went?" Dean asks, still on guard. 

The woman smiles, says, "Of course!" like he should be crazy for even asking. "It's so exciting, isn't it?" 

Dean eyes the woman and decides not to get too close. "Yeah," he says. "Sure is. My brother?" 

"Right this way," she tells him, after closing and locking the front door. Apparently they let people in without an issue if an angel tells them to but everyone else can fuck off. Dean's not sure how he feels about that but isn't about to get on this woman's bad side. She's thrilled enough to take any expression of doubt or disbelief as well as a pitbull might react to an intruder on its territory. 

The house itself isn't bad. The carpet's thick beneath Dean's boots and a pretty blue that reminds Dean of the ocean; the walls are white and there are plants tucked in almost every corner. Crosses are on every wall, along with paintings of Bible scenes and prints of weirdly-lit cottages in the middle of nowhere. Dean feels uncomfortable, ridiculously out of place, but a bed's a bed and they'll be out in the morning. 

At least, that's what he thinks. Then he turns a corner and hears crying. That's never good. The woman's face falls and Dean doesn't think before he pats her on the shoulder and says, "Thanks, but you'd better not get any closer." He brushes past her, drops the gear outside of a room with an open door, and walks in, not sure what to expect. 

He takes in the tableau with a glance and sighs. Sandalphon's in bed, hands holding tight to Sam, who looks as if he just stood up and is trying to leave. Castiel's watching with a puzzled expression and Sam glances up, meets Dean's eyes and tears away his own as quickly as possible. Sam hasn't done that since Dean crawled out of a grave and found him in a hotel room with a demon. 

"She won't let go," Sam says. He sounds apologetic but there's something else under the surface, something that twists and turns and leaves Dean suspicious but worried more than anything. Dean looks at Castiel, frowns when Castiel merely returns the look. "I. I think maybe I should." 

"Stay with her," Dean says. He's not surprised. He's really not happy. "I'll grab your stuff."

Sam sits back on the bed and Sandalphon moves fast, throwing her arms around Sam's neck, pulling him close and crying into his neck. If it wasn't for Castiel standing there as if on guard, if it wasn't for the fact that they took this woman from Lilith, Dean might find the situation halfway funny. 

He goes to get their stuff, brings it inside and surveys the suite. Bathroom's off to the left, so's a small kitchen, and the desk stretches along the wall opposite, couch, chair, and television further down, bed tucked back behind the corner of the kitchen. It's cozy, better than a lot of the other places he and Sam have stayed at. 

"Couch open up?" he asks, bending over it and picking up a cushion to check. 

"Perhaps the room next door would suit you better," Castiel says. 

Dean stiffens, looks up at the angel and asks, "What's that supposed to mean?" Sam says his name, sounds tired, and Dean glances at his brother, takes in the way Sam's already listing towards the pillows. Sandalphon's dragging him down but Sam's not doing much to fight it. "Tomorrow," Dean tells Castiel. "We are going to have to talk. Tonight, I am sleeping on the couch. Deal with it." 

Castiel merely nods. "They have brought clothes for Sandalphon, for sleeping and for tomorrow. I will speak with you in the morning." 

The angel leaves, closing the door behind him. "Peachy," Dean mutters. "Fucking perfect." Still, when he sits down on the couch, the cushions are soft. It might not be so bad, just for the night, has to be better than the backseat of the Impala. 

Better than hell, too. 

\--

Morning comes sooner than Dean's strictly comfortable with. He wakes up to sunlight and Sandalphon murmuring something in her sleep. Dean sits up, yawns and scratches his belly. Once he's decided he's awake and shouldn't even bother trying to get back to sleep, he stands up, wavering as a line of pain shoots up through his leg to his hip. 

Glad that Sam's asleep and didn't see his moment of weakness, Dean pads into the kitchen and puts on a pot of coffee without thinking about anything in particular. It's not until he's done and looking out over the counter and to the bed that he realises _Sam_ is murmuring, not Sandalphon.

Sam used to talk in his sleep when he was younger, stopped when their father started working them. Then, Sam slept like the dead, falling into sleep so hard and fast that Dean more than once thought Sam was too still, too quiet to be breathing. He had to check every time, wasn't able to calm down and sleep himself unless he was in the same bed as Sam, one hand over Sam's heart or wrist to feel the reassurance of a steady pulse echo in his own blood. Maybe, thinking about it now, Dean's been scared of seeing Sam die for a lot longer than he'd ever guessed. 

Dean rubs his eyes and looks over the two in the bed. Sandalphon has one hand on Sam's cheek, her face tucked into his neck, sleeping closer to Sam than Dean's ever seen Sam allow anyone, except for Dean. He wonders, a split-second thought that makes his chest ache, if this is the way Sam slept with Jess. 

The coffeepot beeps and Dean turns, pours himself a cup and blows across the surface of it before he sips. They'll leave today. They'll get away from the angels and maybe drive along the Gulf for a few days, see if they can't get some sunshine on a beach somewhere for a few hours. Sam's always liked water and they're both getting pale; it wouldn't be a bad idea. 

\--

Dean tries not to wake up his brother or the woman in the bed. It isn't difficult; they seem like they're sleeping pretty deeply. Dean showers and pulls on his jeans from the day before, a clean t-shirt. He watches Sam for the time it takes to drink a second cup of coffee and realises that Sam and Sandalphon, they're breathing in sync. 

Dean suddenly gets a very bad feeling about this. They might not be heading to the Gulf today. 

He leaves the cup in the sink, leaves the room and tracks the path he took last night, making his way to the entrance hall. Last night's impression only solidifies: the place is immaculate and bright, almost empty though Dean thinks its supposed to look like that. He wanders down the widest hall branching off from the foyer, almost runs into the same woman who'd been around last night. 

"Hey," she says, grin splitting her face nearly in half. "Sleep okay?" 

"Yeah," Dean replies. Something about her really sets him on edge. "I'm Dean," he adds, offering his hand. 

She takes it, gives Dean a firm handshake. "Mercy," she says. At Dean's raised eyebrow, she says, "My parents had a sense of humour. All of us kids have names like that. My sister Joy doesn't mind so much but sometimes Patience gets out of sorts. You want some breakfast?" 

Dean smiles. "Breakfast sounds good." 

She leads him through a large, formal dining room to a smaller one, then to the kitchen. "We're not very fancy around here, not when it's just us. When Castiel came through we made sure we cleaned out our schedule." She bangs around some pans, cracks a few eggs into a measuring glass and whisks them, drops in a few herbs, some chunks of ham and cheese. "Man, let me tell you. Having an _angel_ show up on our doorstep sure was something. It's such an honour, you know? That the Lord would see fit to show us His favour in this way."

"Cas tell you why we're here?" Dean asks, after it takes his brain a minute to realise this woman, she's completely legit, _way_ too excited. 

"We didn't ask and he didn't share," Mercy says, like it's no big deal to have an angel show up followed by two guys and a woman that looks like she's been put through the ringer. "It's enough that we've been chosen. Castiel asked that we make you at home so if there's anything we can do, let me know, okay? We're here to serve." 

Dean hums, watches Mercy juggle a couple pieces of bread into the toaster. "Who's we?" he finally asks. 

Mercy chops up some onions, adds those to the omelet she's got going on in a skillet. The microwave beeps and Mercy takes out some bacon, flips the omelet and slides the bacon into the skillet next to the eggs. 

"My husband and I run the place," she says. "Ron and me, we have two boys that are up at Brigham Young. They went up to witness; we pray for them every day. Our youngest, a girl, she's up in Seattle Pacific working on her teaching degree. They come home for the holidays so we'll have a full family Thanksgiving in a few weeks. Right now, my sister's here as well. If you see another blonde running around, that's Peace. Lord's blessed her with a keen mechanical mind so she's usually fixing something." Mercy serves up a plate of food, slides it in front of Dean. She adds, smiling, "Just don't ask her to cook anything f'you." 

"Gee, thanks," another woman says. When Dean looks, she's leaning against the doorway, has a smear of grease on her cheek and her arms folded across her chest. Blonde hair is wisping out of a braid that's messy, the same colour as Mercy's. 

Dean glances between the two, says mildly, "You never told me you were a twin, Mercy." 

"You never asked, Dean," she replies. Her eyes sparkle; Dean's a little taken aback. Either she's not entirely human or she's not all there, _can't_ be. People like this don't exist. Dean watches as Peace saunters in, threatens Mercy with grease-covered hands. Mercy scowls but it's playful. "And you, missy, are not washing your hands in my kitchen." 

Peace grins, winks at Dean. "Gotta wash 'em somewhere, right Merce?"

Mercy raises her hands in defense but uses them to shoo Peace out as soon as she can. "Go on! I'll put the kettle on for you once you're clean." 

Dean looks from one sister to the other, picks up his plate and a fork. "I'm gonna go and see if my brother's awake. That okay?" 

"Oh, sure, Dean," Mercy says. "Someone'll come by to check on you guys in a bit." 

Dean smiles, says thank you, and beats a hasty retreat. 

Castiel's lurking in the entrance and Dean puts down the plate on a table, inspects the door, the windows. "No salt," Dean says. "No runes, no wards, not even sage outside. What the hell are these people _on_?" 

The angel turns to Dean, lays eyes on Dean that scour down to the soul. "Faith, Dean Winchester. They have faith. Even without an experience like yours, without needing proof, they believe. Perhaps you should try it yourself."

Dean bristles, feels the handprint on his arm throb in time to his heartbeat, to the hound bite on his leg. "I'm going back to the room. You coming? Or would you rather lurk out here and wait for the crazies?" 

Castiel's eyes are hard, like judgment. Dean feels small. 

\--

Sam's still asleep. Dean sits down on the couch, eats with one eye on his brother, on the strange woman curled up against Sam. Once they're awake, once Castiel comes back here, they'll get some answers. Nothing about this makes any sense and this place, these people? They're just freaking Dean out even more. 

Dean's got his feet propped up on the table, remote clicking through a television set to mute, when Sam wakes up. It happens quickly; Sam sits up, too fast, at the same time as Sandalphon. Both of them look frantic, as if they've been chased, woke up wild with panic. 

"Not safe," Sandalphon says. Dean's about ready to agree with her, ask her how she knows. She shakes her head, though, and begins speaking in fractured sentences, starts off slow and quiet, speeds up as her calm disappears. "Not safe, not here, have to get back, won't give in, I swear it, Father, I won't but I have to get back, I have to but I can't, I _can't_ , oh, Father, please, I _can't_!" 

Before Dean can react, Sam does, wrapping his arms around her shoulders, pulling her practically on to his lap. "You will," he murmurs. "You'll be able to, Sandalphon. We just need to, you know what we need to do." 

She cries, shakes. Dean's on his feet and doesn't remember how he got there. 

"What is she talking about?" Dean asks. "And what the hell do you mean, she knows what _we_ need to do." 

Sam looks up, arms still around Sandalphon. There's something in his eyes that terrifies Dean down to the last crevice of his soul. It isn't a demon lurking in Sam's eyes, threatening to grow and take over, to corrupt Sam's mind and steal him from Dean. 

It's madness. 

"Something Lilith did to her," Sam says. It sounds like he's struggling for words, as if trying to get his message across to Dean is harder than ever before. For two people who've grown up together, a three year separation their _only_ separation of any length, their minds and bodies used to life-and-death together, that doesn't make Dean feel any better. "It. It did something to her. I don't know."

"What _do_ you know?" Castiel asks. The angel got in without Dean noticing, startles Dean badly. 

Sam's eyes glide from Dean to Castiel. Sandalphon shakes, looks up at them, and says, simply, "Everything." 

Castiel starts, a slight movement that Dean wouldn't have noticed if they hadn't been standing so close to one another. The edge of Castiel's coat brushes against Dean's arm but when Dean looks, the angel's still. 

Putting aside whatever Sandalphon means for the moment, Dean asks Sam, "What did she mean, it isn't safe? They don't have salt lines but should we be getting ready for demons? If I'm gonna be painting traps, I'd like to know. Something tells me these people don't keep spray paint around."

Sam looks puzzled, like he's missing the core of what Dean's saying. Dean takes a step forward, stops when he realises he has no idea what he can do. Sandalphon eyes him but doesn't say anything. 

"Will she let you go?" Dean asks. "You could use a shower," he adds, aiming for casual. Judging by Sam and Sandalphon's expressions, he fails miserably. 

Still, Sam turns to Sandalphon, murmurs something to her that Dean doesn't understand but has Castiel straightening, taking in a harsh breath. "He should not know that," Castiel mutters. 

Dean doesn't think he was meant to hear it but he can't stop himself from turning to the angel and giving Castiel a look. 

Castiel meets Dean's eyes. The angel seems larger than its host for a moment, almost as if its trying to hold onto a physical presence, trying not to let go and turn intangible, whatever Castiel's true visage is with wings and, maybe, a flaming sword. The fact that Castiel's fighting the urge, it means something. Dean just doesn't know what. He doesn't know a lot about what's going on around here. Ordinarily that would be enough to piss him off. With Sam involved, caught in the middle of everything, it just makes his blood run cold. 

"Your brother," Castiel says, voice echoing oddly. Sandalphon lays wide eyes on Castiel but doesn't stop him. "Samuel Winchester is under my protection. Let all hear and take note."

Sandalphon nods, a smile gracing her face. It makes her look ten years younger. Sam drops his head, reaches out one hand on the comforter. Castiel brushes past Dean, drops to one knee and lays his hand over Sam's. 

"It isn't necessary," Sam murmurs. He looks up, looks right at Dean. "I already have someone to fight for me." 

Dean's blood sings at the open declaration, especially in the presence of an angel. Sam's words burn something at the base of his spine, the pit of his belly, and he catches himself wanting to move, wanting to go over and wrap Sam up in his arms and never let go, angels and demons both be damned. 

"You know all of what Sandalphon knows," Castiel says. "And you know why the Lord commanded me to raise your brother from his place in perdition. He will fight with you and I will fight for you. This I swear." 

Sam's eyes leave Dean, slip to Castiel. Dean doesn't know what the hell Castiel's talking about or why Sam should know everything that Sandalphon knows. He doesn't _care_. All Dean can focus on is Castiel's hand on Sam's and the look in his brother's eyes as Sam merely says, "Thank you." 

\--

Sam gets in the shower. Sandalphon stays huddled in bed and won't let anyone touch her, starts crying when Dean and Castiel get too close. Castiel looks as sad as the angel ever has but Dean doesn't care, can't bring himself to feel any sympathy for these two that have, effectively, stolen his brother. 

He waits until Sam's out and putting on his shoes before grabbing their gear and taking it next door, the room he'd been offered the night before. Dean salts and wards the room, tries not to notice how Sam keeps his gaze fixed at the wall separating them from Sandalphon and Castiel, if the angel's still there. 

Once that's done, he tugs Sam out and down to the kitchen, sits him at the counter and tells Mercy, "This is Sam. He's my brother. He won't eat much but he likes to pick. Would you mind," trailing off. 

Mercy grins, takes out the carton of eggs from the fridge again. "We'll get you fixed right up, sweetie," she says. Sam flinches when she reaches out towards him and her eyes change as she moves slower. She puts her hand over Sam's, pats twice, and Sam lets her. 

Dean needs answers. He gives Mercy a smile, small and forced, and leaves, stalking back to find Castiel. Uriel meets Dean in the hallway, fills the hall with wings that Dean can feel the edge of but can't see. Dean stops, wary, and wonders if he really should've left his brother alone. 

"Castiel has pledged himself to the protection of your brother," Uriel says, no small talk, no slurs. 

Dean barely stops from rolling his eyes at Uriel's tone but the words, they have Dean interested. "What, _exactly_ , does that mean?" he asks. "Pledged himself? You guys have free will?" 

Uriel grimaces. "Enough for that," he says. Uriel doesn't sound at all happy. If this wasn't about Sam, Dean might feel a little pleased that something's come between Uriel and Castiel. As it stands, because it's about Sam, Dean feels the stirring of sympathy, the same displeasure Uriel's expressing. "It means that Castiel has claimed your brother for heaven's purposes and the Father's will. Why he would do that when we all know what the boy's destiny is, I don't know. Insanity, most likely; something he picked up from too much time around you humans." 

Eyes narrowed, Dean steps forwards. His hands are clenched fists at his sides and he wishes he had a gun even though they're useless against angels. He's just about to say something when Peace turns a corner and comes to a complete halt at the sight of Uriel. Her face breaks out into a smile and Dean wants to throttle the woman. 

Uriel seems to feel Peace's presence; he moves closer to Dean, murmurs, "Keep a tight rein on your brother, Dean. If you don't see fit to, and if Castiel is too busy attempting to protect him to see him for what he truly is, then I will. And my mercy will not extend to him, not any more than Lilith's mercy would extend to her." He nods at Peace, moves past Dean and disappears through the entranceway. 

"Uriel," Peace breathes out. She's smile, silly, reverent. 

Dean glares at her, says, "Angels are _not_ what you think they are," and keeps going. She's crazy to think that angels might be all rainbows and butterflies, or even _polite_. Ten minutes with Uriel acting himself would change her mind, Dean's sure. 

Thankfully she doesn't argue, seems blind-sided by Dean's lack of awe and stands there, lets Dean get back to Sandalphon's room. Castiel is in Sandalphon's room, sitting on her bed. He looks as if he wants to touch her, gather her up and hold her the way Sam was, but he's holding himself steady and Sandalphon is staring at him. 

Coming up short, Dean's not sure what to do, what to say. His anger's still there, that thrumming need to know just what Castiel's talking about. He wants to know what game Castiel's playing and why the Winchesters seem to be so important to him. But now, seeing the angel like this, Dean's anger has quieted somewhat, mutated into a bittersweet sort of identification. He knows, knows all too well, what it's like to be kept at arms' length from the one person he's always wished to be right next to. Those first few months after Stanford, entire _years_ before Sam left, when Sam was just coming into his visions, after Sam learned about Dean's deal, ever since Dean got back; the time Dean's spent chasing after his brother seems like it's encompassed more of his life than anything else. 

"I did not mean to hurt you, Dean," Castiel says. Dean starts, sees that Sandalphon is staring at him, oblivious to the way Castiel is still watching her. "I am merely attempting to keep safe that which is precious." 

"Precious to who?" Dean asks. "'Cause from where I'm standing, you didn't care one way or the other about Sam until she did. You just wanted him to stop using his own _blood_." 

Castiel turns, looks at Dean over his shoulder. "Not his blood," the angel says. "Azazel's. We thought them close, perhaps the same. Now, I wonder." Castiel looks tired, thoughtful, as he adds, "Now, I wonder about a great many things."

Sandalphon coos. As soon as Castiel turns to her, she flinches, pulls the comforter up to her nose. She starts crying, at first with little hiccuping noises she tries to stifle, then with increasingly louder and longer sobs. Castiel reaches out a hand to comfort her but she moves back. Dean steps forward and she huddles in on herself, trying to make herself a smaller target. 

"What were they doing to her?" Dean asks, close to breathless. He's seen women traumatised like this before but he can't understand why she's trying to get away from an angel when everyone else in this place seems fascinated by them. 

"Ask your brother," Castiel says. 

As if that's a summoning talisman, Sam opens the door, practically throws himself against it. He's flushed, has to have been running from the speed he takes around the corner. Sandalphon almost _leaps_ at Sam and he hugs her tight, one hand on her back, one on the back of her head, pressing her against his body. 

"Sorry," he tells her, strokes her hair and tries to calm her. "I'm sorry I wasn't here but I'm back now, all right? Everything's fine, I promise. You're safe here." 

"Not safe," she argues, voice muffled with her face still mashed into Sam's body. "Not safe, not safe, not safe! Don't leave me, please, please don't leave." 

Dean hears noise behind him, whirls to see Mercy and Peace peering into the room. He gives them a tight smile and goes to the door. 

"Is everything all right?" Mercy asks. "Sam was eating one minute and taking off at full-tilt the next. Lord knows I almost had a heart attack." 

"Sandy's upset," Dean replies. "Nothing that can't be fixed." 

Mercy doesn't look like she believes him; neither does Peace. Still, they both nod, one after the other, and Peace finally asks, "Saw you had a real beaut out there. Mind if I take a look under the hood? Ron's got an old one I'd like to get running but the belts are different from what I'm used to." 

Dean looks back at the bed, can only see the foot of it from where he's standing. One of Sam's legs is off the end, shoe planted on the carpet, and the corner of Castiel's coat flutters in some kind of breeze. Sam will be fine, has his _sworn protector_ here to look after him. 

"Sure," Dean says, turning back to Peace, giving her a smile that isn't at all friendly. "Let me grab my keys." 

\--

He pops the Impala's hood, points out a few things and then lays a blanket down on the ground, ignores his leg to slide underneath and wait for Peace to join him before turning on the flashlight. 

"I rebuilt her a while ago," Dean says. "You can see where the old parts are I was able to salvage and where I had to scrounge up new ones. It's not the prettiest rebuild but it works. What's the problem with Ron's?"

"Thought it was a belt issue," Peace says, reaching up to check whether a bolt's tight. "But now I'm not so sure. It cranks but it won't start. I've changed the plugs, checked the fuel pressure, done everything I could think of." 

Dean swipes at an errant leaf stuck up in the engine, pulls it down and slides out from under the car. "Checked the ignition timing?" he asks. Peace shimmies out from under the car, moves a piece of hair off of her face and leaves a streak of grease in its wake. She shakes her head, lips pursed. "Could be a choke plate issue, too. If you want, I'll take a look at it." 

She brightens, nods. "That'd be great, thanks." 

"No problem," Dean says. He closes the hood, wipes his hands off on his jeans, grease and dust everywhere. "If you don't mind me asking, you and your sister, your family. What's the story?"

Peace laughs, asks, "What'd you mean?" 

Dean shrugs, tries to fight the blush he can feel spreading over his cheeks. "Y'know. A Christian retreat centre way out here, kids up at Mormon Central, all of your names. What's your story?" 

"No story to speak of," Peace says. "Mercy and Ron, this is their calling, to minister and serve like this. I'm just around to make sure nothing breaks while they do it."

"Minister and serve," Dean says, half in disbelief. No one is _this_ saintly, especially not in large groups. "But you don't even have the place protected. How can you minister if you don't have up basic means to keep people safe?" 

Peace frowns, asks, "What are _you_ talking about?" 

Dean gapes. "Salt lines, for one. Sage or rowan for another, maybe some wards in angelic script. All the crucifixes and crosses inside are good but have they been blessed by a priest? Do you keep holy water around?" 

"We're not Catholic," Peace says. Her smile's gone; the grease looks more threatening now, stretched as it is over a face that's frowning. "And we don't hold with any of that New Age stuff. We don't need any protection that isn't God's, and we pray for His enough." She stops, shakes her head as she moves away. "I hope you aren't bringing any of that into our home," she says, half over her shoulder, as she walks away. 

Dean watches her leave, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, no," he says, once she's out of earshot. "We're not doing anything the angels don't want us to do." 

\--

Caught up in his thoughts, Dean's not paying much attention as he walks back inside, intent on washing his hands and getting a clean pair of jeans. He pauses at the sound of voices, though; they're coming from Sandalphon's room, the one he's beginning to think is also Sam's. Dean eyes his room next door, decides fresh clothes can wait, and opens the door to Sandalphon's room slowly, eases in without, he hopes, interrupting the conversation. 

"My head hurts," Sam's saying. Dean winces; he hates the thought that Sam isn't feeling well and feels helpless, unable to make anything better. Aspirin doesn't make a difference, neither does Ibuprofen, even the six-hundred milligram pills they have leftover from their last stop at Bobby's. Dean's even tried pushing a couple Oxycontin tabs at his brother, carefully rationed from the bottle Dean hustled off some pusher a year ago. Nothing works. 

"As you knew it would by this time," Castiel replies. 

That doesn't make sense. Why would Sam know he'd have a headache? At first, Dean thinks it has more to do with some kind of chronic pain Sam has, but then he remembers what Sam told Ruby the time Dean stumbled across the pair of them. Ruby had asked Sam how he felt and Sam had said, what, that the headaches were gone. 

Blood running cold, Dean slides closer, hears his brother shift and sigh. The bed creaks. Sam must be under the covers with Sandalphon again. 

"I know," Sam says. "I just. I'm sorry, Castiel, but how can something I use for good be evil? I mean, sure, the demon blood, that's bad. I _know_ that. I feel it every second of every day. I can't forget it. But I'm not using it to summon demons. I'm not using it to control minds or change the future or electrocute people to death. I exorcise demons. I _kill_ them, just like the Colt or the knife. Except when I do it, the host lives. _You_ can't even kill demons without killing their hosts." 

It takes Castiel a moment to respond but the angel does, saying, "I do not pretend to know the will of My father. But you know you have the capacity for every gift you have just named, the capacity and a deep desire for vengeance. The gifts might not be available for your use at the present moment but the potential exists and the impulse is already growing within your soul. I fear that, one day, you will succumb to them. It will only be made easier by the use of certain of them now." 

Dean grinds his teeth to keep from making any kind of noise. It isn't _fair_.

"I won't," Sam says. He sounds broken, sounds as if the hints of madness Dean's seen in his brother's eyes are starting to spread, grow deeper and take root like some kind of parasite. "I." Sam stops; Dean wishes he could see what his brother's doing, what sort of expression Sam has on his face. "Castiel, I would never." 

"We have seen your threads in the Father's tapestry," Castiel says gently, far too gently. 

Sam hiccups, starts to cry. "I won't, Castiel. I swear it on my _soul_ , I would _never_." 

The angel is silent. Dean wants to turn the corner, punch Castiel is his too-pretty face, bundle Sam into the Impala and never look back. Castiel says, "Every soul has a fault-line, Samuel Winchester," and his voice echoes with prophecy. 

"That's _enough_ ," Dean says. He can't hold himself back, doesn't bother. He moves around the corner, glares at Castiel and heads for Sam. "You have no right to say that about my brother, okay? Sam's better than that. He's better than you and me _both_ , that's for damn sure." 

Sandalphon starts to cry in her sleep. Sam rests a hand on her shoulder and she wakes up, curls into Sam and holds tight. Dean watches, can't help it, and jumps when he feels a hand on his arm, fingers settling into the same place they've already been burnt into Dean's skin. 

"I wish to talk with you," Castiel says. His eyes flick from Dean's to the bed, then back again. "Outside." 

"Oh, _great_ ," Dean mutters. He stalks out to the hallway, doesn't even check to make sure Castiel is following him down the hallway to the entranceway and then further, into a sitting room with two walls of windows. When he judges that Castiel's had enough time to follow him, Dean spins on one foot, gets right in Castiel's face and says, "What, am I in trouble? You gonna ground me? What you told him, you had no right. _None_. You don't know a fucking thing about Sam or you'd know better." 

Castiel steps closer; Dean backs up until he hits glass. The angel isn't usually so threatening, keeps his distance physically to match the distance he maintains emotionally. Of course, that's been breaking over the past few weeks; it's no wonder Castiel's starting to fit into the host better, is learning how to _use_ his host. 

'There are things, Dean Winchester, that you do not understand." Castiel is implacable, like normal, but a fire burns in his eyes. "This is one of them. You will cease discussing your brother in this manner or I will become very, _very_ displeased." 

Dean snorts. He can't help it, knows that he has Castiel between a rock and a hard place. There's no way they'll do anything to him, not when they've pulled him out of hell. "He's my brother, Castiel. _You_ can shut the fuck up about him. I know him better than anyone on this planet, okay?" 

Castiel moves the way he did in that building when they first met: steady, nothing stopping him. Dean swallows. "Not anymore," he says. He holds his ground but it's a close thing.

Dean's heart sinks but he doesn't let it show on his face. "Oh, yeah? You think you know him better than I do? You don't even know his favourite ice cream." 

"I might not," Castiel replies, "but that does not change the fact that you would do well to not press me on this issue. _Do you understand_?" 

The angel waits for an answer like he has nothing better to do and all the time in the world. Dean shakes his head, tries to clear his ears from the ringing he's trying to convince himself he imagined. Castiel seems to know that it isn't a refusal and doesn't move, hardly doesn't breathe. He hasn't blinked since the beginning of this confrontation, not that Dean's seen. 

He glares at Castiel, grits his teeth. "This coming from your _Father_?" he asks. Dean knows he's walking a thin line, only realises now _how_ thin. If Castiel's eyes were burning before, they're an inferno now, and Dean has to be seeing things, cannot be seeing light shine through the host's skin like the angel inside is going to burst through at any second. 

Dean has never seen Castiel look less human. Up until this point, he's been frustrated by Castiel, angry, full of disbelief, scared. In this moment, this endless moment, Dean feels fear. 

"My Father's plans," Castiel says, tone of voice low, volume just loud enough for Dean to hear, "are many and unknowable. Do you understand me, Dean Winchester?" 

"Yeah," Dean says. He clears his throat, licks his lips. "Yeah. I got it." 

Castiel stares at him a moment longer, then nods. "Good. See that you do not forget." 

The angel turns and Dean lets out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He drops his head, takes in a few deep breaths, and says, "And don't you forget it either, Cas. Many and unknowable. You can't know all of them." 

Dean looks back up, almost jumps as he sees Sandalphon in the doorway. She's watching both of them. Dean's about to ask how long she's been there when she tilts her head, grins at them, and says, "Spumoni." That answers the question.

Dean frowns. "Chocolate," he argues. "Since he was twelve." Castiel glances over his shoulder. "Sorry," Dean says, "but I'm curious, okay? I honestly thought it was chocolate. I'm not, y'know."

"It's all right," Sandalphon says, coming closer. She reaches out, cups Castiel's cheek. It's the most physical contact she's initiated with anyone other than Sam since they rescued her. 

Dean watches as Castiel's hands clench at his sides, then relax. The angel lifts one hand, lets it hover, a clear sign to Sandalphon. When she doesn't react, doesn't flinch or move back or break contact, Castiel covers her hand on his face with his own. Dean can't see Castiel's face but he can _feel_ the release of pressure from the room. 

"Sandalphon," Castiel says. "Sandalphon, what are you doing out of bed?" 

"I'm," she starts to say. Dean can see around Castiel well enough to see the smile replaced by a frown. "Sam told me. I can't. Ice cream? Why were you talking about ice cream? Cas, I think I'm hungry, that's what it was. Sam told me I was hungry. Is there ice cream?" 

She slips her hand out from under Castiel's and his hand falls back to his side. "All the ice cream you want," Castiel promises, "if you will go back to bed." 

"Sam said," Sandalphon protests. 

"Samuel should also be in bed," Castiel interrupts. He shakes his head, motions at Sandalphon to turn around and go. "The pair of you." 

Castiel follows Sandalphon out of the room. Dean glares at the angel's back, mutters, "Not much for waiting, are you?" and hightails it out of there as well. 

\--

Sandalphon returns to the suite she and Sam have taken over, sliding in to bed and looking at Castiel as if to make sure he's happy. Dean looks around, doesn't see his brother. Castiel pulls up the blankets, covers Sandalphon up to her waist. 

"The birds are out," she says, eyes wide. "Cas, the sun is singing." 

"I know," Castiel replies, sounds as if he's on the verge of shushing her. "But you need sleep, Sandalphon. Please, for me?" 

She nods and closes her eyes, expression serious. That only lasts a moment before she gasps, sits up, says, "I forgot to tell you something. I was supposed to tell you something but I forgot." Her eyes fill to the brim with tears. "Cas, I'm sorry. I'm doing this all wrong. I can't remember. I'm no help at _all_."

"You don't have to help," Castiel says. "Only recover. Now hush and sleep." 

"Do you forgive me?" Sandalphon asks. Her voice echoes with a strength Dean doesn't expect to hear, not from her, not like this. "I need to know if you forgive me." 

Castiel doesn't smile but he comes closer to it than Dean has ever seen. "If my Father can, how can I not? Yes, Sandalphon. I forgive you. Now _please_ , sleep." 

She yawns, lays back down, fingers clutching at the edges of the blanket. "I miss Sam," she says, already drifting off. "Can you bring him back? He's not happy." 

Castiel straightens up, locks eyes with Dean. "Wait with her. I will retrieve your brother." 

Dean's eyes narrow. "I can get him," he says. "Sam's my responsibility, just like she's yours." 

The nod Castiel gives him is reluctant. 

\--

Dean checks the bathroom before he leaves the room, just in case, then checks the room they have next door. Sam's not there and he's not in the Impala, not anywhere in sight of the parking lot. Dean has no doubt that Castiel knows exactly where Sam is and what he's doing but Dean would rather eat nails than go back and ask the angel for help. 

Squaring his shoulders, Dean checks every place in the hotel that Sam could be hiding: lobby, vending area, cleaning supply closets, laundry rooms, every hallway and unlocked door, the courtyard, the gym, the pool. 

On the verge of admitting that asking for Castiel's assistance might be preferable to the panic clawing at the base of his spine, Dean walks by the banquet room and pauses. He goes back, opens the door a little wider, and sees Sam huddled in the corner. Dean sighs, crosses the room in a handful of long strides, and crouches down next to Sam. 

"You're too big to be hiding in empty corners," Dean says. "Though, saying that, why _are_ you trying to hide here?"

"I'm not hiding," Sam says. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepen, twist together. "I'm right here." 

Dean snorts. "Yeah, just hanging out in the corner. Someone put you in time-out? Come on, tell me what's wrong." 

Sam shakes his head. "Nothing. I. It's nothing."

Sam can be that way, fine. He'll talk when he's ready; if that's not soon, Dean'll just push until Sam blows. 

He shrugs, stands up and leans to offer Sam a hand. "Come on. Back to bed, angel's orders." Sam doesn't move, doesn't say anything, so Dean stretches out and swipes at Sam's shoulder. He doesn't know what he's expecting, maybe for Sam to glare at him or take his hand. Dean is in no way prepared for the little, bitten-off cry of pain that slips from Sam's lips. "Sam?" 

This time, when he makes a move to touch his brother, Sam jerks back and away. That hurts but Dean doesn't have a chance to let the hurt show, not when it only takes a second for his mind to make a connection between that response and every response Sandalphon has had to physical contact. 

"Fuck," he says. "What's. Are you two. Sam?"

"I'm sorry," Sam whispers, head turned away. "Dean, I'm so sorry but nothing's working. I can _feel_ them, feel all of them, and I can hear what you're all thinking and I can't turn it off, I'm not doing it on purpose, I _swear_ , I'd stop if I could, I'm sorry, please, I, please don't touch me." 

Dean knows it doesn't have anything to do with him but the hurt he feels at Sam's request, that goes deep. He casts his mind back, tries to remember what Sam told them about Sandalphon. Sandalphon. Maybe he should go back and wake her up, get her out here to help Sam the way Sam's the only one who can help her. "It overloads when anyone touches you?" he asks. "And you can feel what, demons and angels?"

"I can't make it stop," Sam says. He looks up and Dean wants nothing more than to reach out, wipe the tears off of Sam's face. That would hurt Sam, though, so Dean keeps his hands firmly in check, muscles aching with tension. "I can't and I want it to, Dean, honest, but it won't and I can't and I don't know what to do."

"Can you get up, get back to the room?" Dean feels like an ass for not coming up with anything better. "Maybe if you get some sleep it'll happen by itself." He straightens up, forces a smile. "C'mon, Sandy's already in bed."

Sam sniffs, wipes off his cheeks with the back of one hand. Dean gives him space to stand, watches carefully as Sam stands, wobbling a little, using the wall for leverage. Even if Sam faltered, there's nothing Dean can do, not when touching Sam would probably hurt more than falling back down to the floor. "She hates it when you call her that," Sam says. The lines at the corners of his eyes, crow-lines of pain, settle in even as Sam's eyes turn glassy. 

Dean waits until Sam's steady, then tilts his head at the door. "Move it, Sasquatch." 

\--

Castiel is waiting for them, standing at the foot of the bed. He's looking at Sandalphon when they come in but his attention is on them; his whole body turns, shoulders tense, the instant Dean walks through the doorway. Castiel scans Dean, then looks over Dean's shoulders at Sam, eyes narrowing at what he sees. 

The angel strides across the space between them but Dean plants his feet and says, "Don't touch my brother." Castiel pauses, glances at Dean for an explanation. The expression in Castiel's eyes warns Dean that any reason better be a damn good one. "It hurts him. The same thing that happened to her, I don't know how."

Castiel steps to one side and Dean to the other, both of them moving out of Sam's way. Sam gives them both a smile that isn't quite right and walks between them, sitting at the foot of the bed. Sandalphon stirs but doesn't wake. 

"In bed," Dean says. "Sleep, remember? It'll help." 

Sam's eyes slip from Dean to Castiel. The angel starts to move, checks himself and falls back into the stillness Dean has come to expect. "The others are coming," Sam says. "Sandalphon felt it first but I can now, too. They want to see how she is." 

"Angels," Dean guesses. At Sam's nod, Dean breathes out and asks, "Which ones? Do you know?" 

"Raziel and Raphael," Sam says, head tilted to one side as if he's thinking hard about it. Dean thinks back to Pam, to Missouri, to every psychic he's ever met, and hates that Sam must be reaching out to get those names. "Mercy is coming. Victory. A trinity of angels: revelation, healing, and victory."

Dean looks at Castiel. "Haniel," the angel says, filling in the blank for Dean. "Raziel, Raphael, and Haniel." He shakes his head, just once, and focuses on Sam. "We'll be ready, Samuel. You must do as your brother says and sleep. Perhaps with rest, you will be capable of fighting back the awareness. My brethren will arrive regardless of your forewarning."

Sam shakes his head, leaves it tilted to one side the way Sandalphon often does. "I think it's here to stay." 

"Either way, we'll know once you get some sleep," Dean says. He meets Sam's mulish gaze, raises an eyebrow in reply. 

Sam sighs but does as directed, crawling under the covers next to Sandalphon. She murmurs something, shifts and ends up pressing her face into Sam's shoulder, one arm thrown over his chest. Sam cradles her closer, lets his eyes shut like this is where he belongs. 

If she wasn't nuts, if Sam wasn't getting there, Dean might be jealous. Glancing at Castiel, he thinks the angel would understand.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean excuses himself, goes out to the Impala and goes through his supplies. Weapons won't work on angels; these ones don't sound so bad but it never hurts to be prepared defensively. He has to make a couple trips; Peace watches him with suspicion and his leg burns like it's on fire. Dean has to take a breather halfway through and he's sitting on the front porch steps when he sees a person walk out of the trees at the end of the driveway. He frowns, narrows his eyes when the person stops. 

Ruby. It looks like Ruby. 

Despite the pain in his leg, Dean gets up, hightails it out to the trees, stops a few paces away from her and with the demon-killing knife in his hand. 

Ruby eyes the knife, and Dean, cautiously, and asks, "Sam's in there? He's doing all right?"

"What do you care?" Dean practically snarls.

"I heard you two let Samhain's seal get broken," she says. "But Sam killed him, right? Samhain's a pretty big demon, Dean. Couldn't have been easy." 

Dean glares at the demon, says, slowly, "One day, I'm going to _hurt_ you, Ruby, for what you've done to my brother." She opens her mouth but doesn't say anything when Dean goes on. "But he's still alive right now, probably thanks to you. So I'll wait. But don't think this means I like you or that I ever want to see you again. Got it?" 

Ruby tilts her head, studies Dean. "Sure. Tell Sam I said hi." The demon gives Dean a jaunty little wave and a smile, then turns and fades back into the forest. 

Dean waits, stands there until his leg feels like it's going to give out on him. He has no clue what Ruby's game is but he doesn't trust her, not one bit. 

\--

Dean lugs in a few more books, a bag of precious stones that maxed out three of their fake credit cards, and a couple sticks of chalk. 

He brings them back to Sam and Sandalphon's room, locks the door and sets everything down on the table just inside, stopping short when he sees Castiel sitting on the edge of the bed next to Sam. 

"Oh, I see how it is," he spits out, suddenly furious. Castiel turns with a precise efficiency not at all close to human, cocks his head in question. "You got everything you wanted from me and now that my brother's going crazy, you suddenly realised you made a mistake, is that it? Already have one Winchester in your clutches, now you need the other one? That why you were warning me off?"

"He's helping," Sam says. Dean sucks in a breath, moves so he can see that Sam's awake, bleary-eyed and with a green tinge to his skin, but awake. "Please, Dean." Sam has one arm around Sandalphon, is holding her close as she sleeps through this, but his other hand, that's caught between both of Castiel's. 

That takes a moment to sink in. They're holding hands. Castiel is _touching_ Sam and it doesn't seem to be hurting. It's _helping_. Sam is letting that angel touch him, hold his hand, is asking Dean to let it go when he won't even let Dean get close to him. 

Sam flinches, Sandalphon whimpering at the same time. 

"You are so angry that you are broadcasting loud enough to hurt them," Castiel says, quiet and even. "If you would rather see your brother suffer than see me lend him aid, so be it." The words slam into Dean like a vicious upper-cut but he doesn't refute them. The angel turns back to Sam, bends down and kisses Sam on the forehead. He stands, has to pull his hands away from Sam. 

"Castiel," Sam starts to say, trails off as his eyes flick back and forth between Castiel and Dean. 

The angel says, "Sleep, Samuel," and turns away. As Castiel brushes past Dean, he says, loud enough for Dean and no one else to hear, "More things than you will ever understand, Dean Winchester." 

When Dean turns around to look, the angel is gone. The door is still locked. He turns back to Sam, sees the plea on Sam's face. 

"Get some rest," Dean says, then picks up everything and leaves. He thinks about locking the door, warding it against Castiel, but doesn't. If Sam wants the fucking angel more than he wants Dean, he's welcome to the bastard. 

\--

Researching is Sam's forte but Dean can usually force himself to focus long enough to find the answers. Right now, with the fury riding his veins, knowing Sam's in the room next door, curled around Sandalphon, it's almost impossible to the turn rice-paper-thin pages of a translated _Sefer Raziel HaMalach_ without tearing them to shreds. Sam's left bookmarks between pages, small pieces of paper, some with initials that don't make sense to Dean, some with two or three cramped words. Seeing his brother's handwriting is enough to have Dean ready to put his elbows on the table and try to breathe; he stands up instead, punches the wall and leaves traces of skin and blood on the stucco. 

Dean half-expects Castiel to be standing there when he turns back around. The room, thankfully, is empty. Dean shakes himself and picks up the _Greater Key_. He takes the book over to the bed, picks through the bookmarks until he sees the letter 'P' followed by a lower-case 'd' over an 'a.' Good enough. 

Working quickly, Dean takes a piece of chalk and sketches out the symbol just inside the door. Sam's better at this, faster and more sure of himself when it comes to the seals and pentacles. Dean's never asked why or how, always wrote it up to Sam being uber-research geek with a better memory for esoterica, but he can't help wondering now if maybe Sam could feel the power as he worked, used that as more of a guideline than the books as he drew out Hebrew into patterns. Sam hasn't reacted to a Trap, though, not even after Dean caught him with Ruby; Dean's an awful person, a worse brother, but he's checked. 

The sixth pentacle of Mars isn't something specifically for angels. The _Greater Key_ says it's used as protection, that the enemy won't be able to hurt the one who uses the pentacle, that weapons shall be turned against any who attack. It won't trap the angels, won't keep them out, but it _will_ make sure none of them can hurt Dean. 

He pauses, thinks maybe he should try drawing this in Sam's room, but the anger comes back, that and the fear from before. If Castiel's protecting Sam from _Dean_ , Castiel is damn well going to protect Sam from any angel that might wish a human with demon blood harm. 

Dean glances at the wall separating his room from Sam and Sandalphon's, gets back to work. With the pentacle done, Dean cross-checks the Kabbalah information Sam put together in a folder the first few days after Dean told him about Castiel. It might be possible to make the pentacle a little stronger; something Sam's said before it working at the back of his mind. 

He finds Raziel first, pulls out a couple pieces of turquoise from their bag of precious gems and a piece of paper with the Hebrew spelling for 'evil' out of one of the side-pockets Sam set up specifically for a day like this. Raphael's next, 'pride' and topaz, then Haniel, emerald and 'lust.' Six stones and the sixth pentacle; combining the two should prove more powerful, so Dean places the stones at the edges of the circle, lays the three pieces of paper inside of it. He double-checks his work, triple-checks it, then wishes he'd thought to ask when the three new angels are supposed to arrive. 

"Powerful protection," Uriel says behind him. Dean grits his teeth, doesn't turn around, doesn't acknowledge the angel. "Though perhaps your mind is still too small, too _human_." Dean can hear the sneer. "Why should they use the door?" 

"Yeah, 'cause you never do," Dean snaps back. "Which is _rude_. Didn't God ever teach you manners?" 

Uriel moves; Dean can hear the rustle of clothes but he doesn't look behind him to see what's going on. He's so angry that the pentacle shimmers in his vision as he stares down at it. 

"Your brother," Uriel says. 

Dean whirls around, bares his teeth. "You can just shut the hell up about my brother," he snarls. "What _is_ it, huh? Suddenly everyone wants to talk about him. You want to kill him, there's an insane woman in the next room who won't let anyone but Sam get close to her, and Castiel's going around making threats to people who just wanna know what the hell's going on. Why Sam? Why now? Is this why your side pulled me out of hell, to get leverage on my brother?" 

Uriel studies him, looks like he's smelling something distasteful, or maybe just really, really thoughtful, Dean can't tell and doesn't care either way. He just wants answers. 

The angel moves, leans against the windowsill and crosses his arms over his chest. "I don't want to kill your brother. But, unlike some, I don't think he can be trusted. Castiel has offered his assurance and guarantee on the matter; the rest of our brethren will trust in his promise for now. As for Sandalphon, perhaps you should keep looking at your brother's research." 

Dean's eyes flick to the folder, then back up. Uriel's gone. "Fucking angels," Dean mutters, words without heat. Knowing Uriel's not going to kill his brother, that makes Dean feel better. Hearing from Uriel, out of everyone, that Castiel really _has_ extended his personal protection to Sam and that others are going to just accept that? That doesn't. 

There's nothing else to do until Sam's so-called trinity of angels show up and most of Dean's anger worked out in the building of the pentacle, the rest turned into frustrated bafflement at Uriel's words. Dean picks up Sam's folder of research and sits on the bed, turns the television on and finds some B-movie from the 80s, leaves it on for background noise but not loud enough to bleed through the walls to Sam's room. He settles down, starts flipping through pages. 

Sam's handwriting hasn't changed a great deal since he was eleven, neater than their father's, smoother than Dean's. When Sam was a kid, Dean used to say Sam would never make a doctor or lawyer with the kind of handwriting he has, that it's too readable. He hasn't said anything about that since Stanford, hasn't joked that Sam must've flunked Lawyering 101, even the few times he thought Sam might grin at the teasing. 

Dean's thankful for it now, flipping through page after page on angels. Most of it is Kabbalah based and so Dean's seeing a lot of references to the _sephiroth_ , the four kingdoms and the Limitless Light, the feminine and masculine and shattering of vessels. None of it's useful or might apply to whatever Uriel was trying to tell him, nothing until Dean turns a page and sees a title on the top: _MLKVTh / MALKUTH_. He scans the page, picks up the highlights, and stops, freezes, when he sees the name of the angel corresponding to this _sefira_. 

Sandalphon. 

Sandalphon isn't a woman, she's an angel. Sandalphon, the woman they rescued from Lilith, the woman Sam is currently wrapped around tighter than a pretzel, isn't a woman after all. She's a fucking _angel_.

Dean has no idea what to do about this. Half of him wants to storm next door and rip Sam away from her, ignore Castiel and Uriel and their goddamn war and take Sam somewhere safe, somewhere away from all of this. The other half, the bigger half, is just tired. 

\--

Dean reads everything in the folder, then goes through all of Sam's other notes, the ones that spread out over four languages, the ones written in a shorthand that doesn't make sense to Dean, the bookmarks on the laptop, even does some Google-searching of his own. He doesn't get much more information than Sam's spelled out in the folder, wishes he could read the languages Sam can to translate Sam's notes and the original texts. 

He feels so _useless_ , a normal feeling when it comes to Sam and Sam's destiny. Ever since Sam started having visions, it's seemed like there's less and less Dean can do; even dying, giving up his soul so that Sam would live, hasn't changed that. Sam's been _different_ since Castiel brought Dean back to earth. Dean can't help with Sam's demonic heritage and he's done a piss-poor job of helping Sam be _Sam_ again, not the demon-killing robot Sam turned in to while Dean was in hell. At times it's been hard enough to get Sam to relax, to eat and sleep and stop moving all the time, much less get Sam to _talk_. 

This? Dean has a feeling all of this isn't going to help things one bit. Now it's not just the two of them against whatever thing they're hunting from week to week and month to month. Now it's them and angels and demons and no clear line to say which are the good guys and which are the bad ones, what actions are good or bad, what's _right_ and what isn't. Nothing's black and white anymore. If Dean's honest with himself, it hasn't been for a long time. If there's one thing hell taught him that Dean wishes he would've learnt sooner, it's that there _is_ no black and white, just shades of grey. Sam tried telling Dean that years ago. Dean wishes now that he would have listened then. 

Castiel's right. There are so many things Dean doesn't understand. 

The door to the room opens fast and thuds against the wall. Dean jumps up, gun in hand and safety off, aims at whatever's outside before he sees his brother. Sam's in a crouch, biting his bottom lip as his hands are still raised up, lockpicks at the level of the doorknob. Sandalphon is right behind him. 

"Oops," Sam says. His eyes are bright but not glassy. "Guess I need to work on that." 

Sandalphon laughs, loose and easy, and shakes her head. "Oops, oops, oops!" she chirrups. 

Sam looks up at her, says, "Quiet, remember? We're trying to be sneaky." Her eyes widen and she puts a finger over her lips. Sam laughs under his breath, turns back to Dean, says, "Sorry. But we're getting really sick of bed and Castiel's not around. Sandalphon wanted to go out for ice cream but I convinced her to come and bother you instead." Sam's smile wavers, voice careful, as he adds, "Is that, I mean, that's okay, right?" Dean doesn't say anything right away and Sam hurries on with a bruised look in his eyes. "We can go back next door if you want, I just thought." 

"No," Dean says, putting the safety back on, lowering the gun. "I mean, yeah, come in." He steps to the side, watches as Sam stands up, moulding his body around Sandalphon's. Sam ushers her in first, starts to follow but stops when Sandalphon freezes. 

Dean looks down, sees that she's walked into the symbol he chalked onto the floor two hours ago. She can't move out of it. If Dean wasn't sure before, wasn't one hundred percent convinced, he is now. 

"Sam," he says, just as careful as Sam was a moment ago. "You do know she's an angel, right?"

"Less of an angel than the others," Sam says. 

Dean blinks at that. "You're going to tell me how an angel can be less of an angel than another angel in a second. First, how long've you known this? That she's an angel." 

Sam hesitates before he answers, pained look in his eyes, something haunted, that Dean can only guess came from watching him be torn apart by hellhounds on a kitchen table. His voice is empty of inflection. "Since I heard her name in my head," Sam says. "Back at the house, when we. When we rescued her. I thought you knew." 

"Not exactly." Dean's reply is short, sharp. Sam hunches in on himself without moving, something he hasn't done often since before their father died. Dean feels guilt flush through him. "I'm not. Jesus, Sam, I'm not mad at you, okay? You've tried hammering this crap into my head from the beginning. It's my own damn fault I didn't read it, didn't put it together. Just. Do you know how _weird_ this all is?" 

"Welcome to my life," Sam says, emotion colouring his words, his expression, flooding in and over them like blood. 

Dean laughs and pushes aside the guilt for now. Instead, he asks, "She gonna be stuck in there? I only ask 'cause it took me a while to get everything right and I'd rather not have to do it again. Speaking of, we really need to have a talk about your note-keeping." 

"Mine?" Sam says. "At least I _take_ notes." 

Dean doesn't argue; Sam's got a good point. Instead, he watches as Sam reaches over the pentacle, lays a hand on Sandalphon's shoulder, trails that hand over her skin and down her arm to her hand, twining his fingers with hers. "Come on," Sam murmurs, soft and gentle. "Don't stay in there. It isn't meant for you." 

Just like that, Sandalphon steps over the edges of the pentacle. 

Dean looks at his brother, can't help asking, "How much power do you _have_?" 

Sam shrugs and doesn't look back at Dean. "Dunno," he says. 

\--

They don't talk about Sandalphon. She's not paying attention to them, is focused on the pattern of Dean's bedspread, but it feels wrong to talk about her when she's right there. Dean keeps conversation light, rambles for a while about movies and whether or not the new AC/DC CD -- and how _strange_ it is that it's on CD -- is any good, and Sam loosens up after half an hour, actually joins in. Sandalphon loses interest in the bedspread, leans back and closes her eyes. 

There's a lull an hour after she starts snoring, Sam looking over at her fondly, Dean watching the line of Sam's neck, the curve of Sam's jaw. "It terrifies me," Sam says, so soft Dean can hardly hear his brother. "What I can do. It's nothing a human should be able to do. No one should be responsible for this kind of power." 

Dean doesn't have to think. "If anyone has it, I'm glad it's you," he says. Sam glances at him, small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "I'm serious. I'm not happy about it but you'll angst about it enough to not take it for granted or use it wrong." 

"I promised I'd stop," Sam says. 

"I'd rather you be alive and killing demons with your mind than dead," Dean replies. He thinks about Samhain, about what might have happened once the demon knocked the knife out of Sam's hand. He's thought about it more than he'd like to admit. If Sam didn't have his freaky demon power, he could be dead a dozen times over by now. The thought makes Dean sick. "I mean, I'm still not exactly _happy_ about the whole thing but." He trails off, doesn't know how to put everything into words. 

Sam hums, leans over and rests his forehead on Dean's shoulder. "Sometimes I get so tired," he says. 

Dean spares a glance at Sandalphon before he reaches up, rubs his knuckles on the nape of Sam's neck. "So sleep, dude." 

A snort but then Sam shifts, manages to curl up with Sandalphon on one side and Dean on the other, one arm thrown across Dean's foot, face mashed against Dean's leg. It can't be at all comfortable. "Sleep here," Sam murmurs, voice soft with sleep. "Miss you, y'know." 

Sam's losing it again. He'd never admit that otherwise, no matter how many chills Dean gets hearing it. 

"You too," he answers, once he's sure Sam's asleep. "You don't even know how much."

He feels weak admitting the truth out loud but Sam's asleep and so is Sandalphon. No one's around to listen. 

\--

A knock sounds on the door. Dean wakes up, neck aching from the uncomfortable position he's been twisted in, leaning against the headboard with his legs crooked, one hand twined in Sam's hair, the other arm hanging off the bed. Sam's got one arm thrown over Dean's legs, has his face buried in Dean's stomach, and Sandalphon's spooning Sam from behind, both of her arms wrapped around Sam's chest and her chin resting on Sam's head. They're a tangled up mess and Dean doesn't want to move. 

The knock, again, though this time it sounds more insistent. With a sigh, Dean slinks out from under Sam's hold, stands up and stretches, back popping. He looks down at his brother, can't help a smile as he sees Sam try to move closer to a person that isn't on the bed. When Sam frowns, though, forehead scrunching up, Dean feels guilty. He bends down, smooths out the lines on Sam's forehead, says, "I'll be right back. Promise." 

Castiel's waiting in the hallway when Dean opens the door. There are three others behind him, two women and a man, none of whom Dean recognises. "All of your hosts are _completely_ willing," he says, can't believe it. 

"Sam and Sandalphon, they are with you," Castiel says, much the same tone: not quite a question, nowhere near a statement. 

Dean nods, once, and says, "The other three first, Cas." 

Castiel graces Dean with a long glance but finally nods, steps to the side. Dean does as well, holding the door open, and looks at the three as they enter the room. Castiel's had the same host since he pulled Dean out of hell and Uriel's been in the same body every time he's come to piss Dean off; it would stand to reason that these three angels will all continue to use the same humans. 

One's a small brunette, curvy and with a face that looks used to laughs and smiles; she's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, a pair of boots that click on the floor as she enters the room. The man follows her, looks like he might be her twin. They share the same features, walk the same, but where her hair curls as it bounces against her shoulder, he's practically bald, his buzz-cut close to the curve of his skull. The third, the other woman, is tall and skinny, bad blonde dye-job doing nothing to cover up the ash of her natural shade. 

One by one, they walk inside the room. All three are caught in the pentacle and Castiel sighs when he goes inside, halts on the edge of the chalk. "This is not necessary," Castiel says. 

"We'll be the judge of that," Dean replies. The three new angels are waiting and Castiel seems distracted, caught on the cusp of remembering something, so Dean tests the waters. "How much power does my brother have?" 

The women exchange glances but the new guy, he stands a little straighter. "Within the Father's tapestry, his threads are dyed the colour of victory," he says. "Why?" 

Dean's eyes flick to Castiel; he can't help it, wants to see how Castiel's reacting to this, how Castiel reacts to this admission. "Because an angel was stuck in the pentacle earlier. All he had to do to get her out was to hold her hand and tell her to move." 

Castiel's eyes narrow, something Dean wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't waiting for a response. They flare wide a moment later. Castiel opens his mouth as if to say something but he waits, eyes flicking between Dean and the three angels caught in the trap. 

"You speak of Sandalphon," one of them women says. "She walks the earth differently than we do. The trap held her weakly and power that frees her will not free us." 

"Willing to test that out?" Dean asks. 

The three angels are silent. In the end, Castiel's the one who says, "Yes. They are willing to perform this test." 

Dean licks his lips, suddenly aware that this conversation is fraught with danger. If Sam has more power than they expect, will they agree with Uriel that he needs to be killed? If Sam can't get them out, would they think _neither_ of them is worth the trouble and let Dean go back to hell? He doesn't know what he wants to happen, what Castiel wants to happen. 

"And you?" he asks, lifting his chin in Castiel's direction. "You're willing to let this happen? You _want_ it to happen?" 

The three caught in the pentacle turn as one to Castiel, who returns Dean's stare. "I hold no stake in this test," Castiel says. "Either way, my thoughts will not change." 

Dean snorts, says, "Great. The same angel who owned up to _doubt_ says he's finally decided on something. Just fucking _great_." Dean stalks over to the bed, drops to his knees and feels his anger melt away as he watches his brother. Sam looks so innocent when he sleeps, young and untouched, and Dean hates having to wake Sam up, bring Sam back to this world, their reality. 

"Hey," he says, soft as he can, reaching out to rub Sam's shoulder. "Hey, wake up. We have visitors." Sam's eyes move behind closed lids and he murmurs wordless protest. "I know you're tired, but you need to get up, Sam." 

Sam shifts and this time Sandalphon's the one that disagrees. Her arms tighten around Sam and she huffs in voiceless frustration. Sam doesn't let her stop him, opens his eyes and says, "They're singing again, Dean. Can you hear them yet?" 

Dean doesn't sigh but it's a close thing. "No," he says, standing up and offering Sam a hand. "Come on."

With care, Sam moves Sandalphon's arms, leans over her and whispers something too quietly for Dean to hear. Sandalphon replies, just as low, and burrows into the pillows, stealing the one Dean had been using and cuddling up close to it. Sam pets her hair and takes Dean's proffered hand, rising with Sandalphon's peculiar grace. 

"The angels you mentioned are here," Dean says. Sam's eyes flick around the room wildly but he can't see them, not on this side of the corner. "Hey, Sam," Dean snaps, not with heat. He's trying to get Sam to focus, thinks it'll be impossible. He takes Sam gently by the chin and _forces_ Sam to meet his eyes. "I need you to focus, okay? The angels you mentioned are here. They're in the pentacle. I want you to help them out the way you helped Sandalphon. Okay?" 

"Help the angels," Sam repeats. He looks like he's trying _so_ hard that Dean can't be angry. He's mostly just tired, worried for his brother like always. "Okay, Dean. I'll help the." Sam trails, head tilting to one side. "They stopped singing," he says. "I'll help." 

Dean takes a deep breath, then Sam's hand. Around the corner, and he can't meet any of the angels' eyes. Castiel murmurs something, a prayer, Dean thinks, and Dean looks at the one angel who has spent the most time with Sam since they rescued Sandalphon, the one angel who originally hesitated to shake Sam's hand and who now looks at Sam differently. 

Castiel's eyes are brimming with tears. 

"Don't cry," Sam says. He drops Dean's hand, walks over to the angel and trails his fingers down Castiel's cheek, up the line of Castiel's jaw. "Please don't cry." 

"I won't." Castiel's words are soft but spoken with the strength of steel. "Your brother said you invited Sandalphon out of the pentacle. Will you do the same with these of my brethren?" 

Sam nods and turns to the pentacle, Dean and Castiel a united front behind him. Dean isn't sure if he wants Sam to succeed or not but Castiel is a solid presence next to him. He almost wishes that he could be on the other side of the pentacle in order to watch Sam's face, but he can see well enough as Sam lifts a hand and offers it to the blonde. 

"She could use your healing," Sam says. "Will you step out in trust?" 

The woman studies Sam, finally nods. "I will, demon-child." She takes Sam's hand in her own and presses against the edges of chalk. The pentacle yields and she steps over gracefully, sneakers making no sound as they land on untouched carpet. 

Dean's heart sinks even as the two angels still caught in the pentacle exchange glances. 

"I will attend to our sister," the blonde says, and gives Castiel a brusque nod before turning the suite's corner. Dean can hear the mattress shift and Sam's in the process of reaching out for the next angel when Sandalphon whimpers in pain. Sam turns his head, hand dropping back to his side, and Dean swallows when he sees the expression on Sam's face, the fury and fear twined up close together. 

Sam pushes past Dean, heads for the bed and Sandalphon. Dean follows a split-second later, Castiel behind him, and sees the blonde woman pressed against the wall, fighting to move but unable even though no one is holding her there. Sam's kneeling on the bed, Sandalphon in his arms. Sandalphon's crying and Sam's stroking her back, crooning something that isn't even in English. 

Castiel reaches out towards the blonde, feeling the surface of something that must be three-dimensional even if Dean can't see it. Castiel lets his palm rest on whatever it is and presses. "I cannot get through to release you," the angel says before looking at Dean. 

Dean rolls his eyes, reaches through whatever it is Castiel ran into, and yanks the blonde sideways. He pauses, then, thinks about what it is he's just done, and says, "Fuck." 

Sandalphon quiets. Dean turns around slowly, sees Sam watching him, sees Sandalphon watching him as well. Both of them have endless, black pupils with a hint of something deeper. They breathe in sync, blink at the same time, even part their lips at the same time and in the exact same way. 

"How close are they?" the blonde asks in a whisper. Dean hopes that she isn't asking him. He can't speak, not with those eyes watching him. 

"He knew her name," Castiel replies, just as quiet. "They are closer than we could ever have guessed. The prescriptions placed on her," he says, picking and choosing his words carefully, "do not seem to apply to him." 

The blonde breathes out the name of God. Sam and Sandalphon smile at the same time, in the same manner. It sends chills down Dean's spine. His skin breaks out into goosebumps. 

\--

Sam settles Sandalphon in bed, properly under the covers this time, pillows fluffed and propped up so she can sit, lean against the headboard, nails picking at a loose thread on the comforter. She smiles at Sam, shoos him away. Dean watches as Sam helps the other two angels out of the pentacle and then makes sure Sam sits down next to Sandalphon. Shadows are still flickering in the hollows under Sam's eyes; Dean doesn't like the look of them, remembers well how much more susceptible to every illness going around Sam always has been if he doesn't get enough sleep. 

"Are you gonna introduce yourselves?" Dean asks as he sits down by Sam, as Castiel perches next to Sandalphon. The three new angels are standing at the foot of the bed and staring at Sam and Sandalphon. Dean doesn't trust them and he doesn't think Castiel does either, not with the way the angel's sitting so close to Sandalphon. 

"I am Raphael," the blonde says. "The male is hosting Haniel while his sister hosts Raziel."

The brunette tilts her head, studying Sam. "We were expected, I take it," she says. "The pentacle was very well tuned." 

"Thanks," Dean says. Raziel's eyes don't move from Sam. "I can see why Raphael might be here but what about you two, huh? Why are you here?" 

"We came to see if we could heal Sandalphon," Raphael says. "Though now I am here, perhaps that healing should be extended. After all, if we will leave heaven for our sister, why should we not also assist our sister's mirror?" 

Dean blinks. "Mirror? You do know he's one of Azazel's, right?" 

Raziel smiles. The expression looks hungry, almost bloodthirsty. "Oh, yes," she says. "A centre of prophetic countenance, your brother. The child of hell, the protected of heaven, the beloved of a mighty warrior." Her eyes slide to Dean. "He is at the apex of a millennia of prophecy, Dean." Her gaze holds Dean's until he feels knowledge press against his mind with all the force of a thunderstorm ready to let loose. 

Dean's not a weak man but he's relieved when her eyes leave his face and move to watch Raphael. 

"And you cannot heal him," Raziel tells the blonde.

Raphael stiffens, glares at the angel of prophecy. "I am capable, Raziel. As they are connected and mirrored, there is no reason why any method of healing I use successfully on Sandalphon should not also work on Samuel." 

Raziel's smile could cut glass. "He is a child of prophecy, not of mercy," she says, voice lilting. "As such, he belongs to me and mine. He cannot be healed by you." 

"He is under my protection," Castiel says. The angel's voice echoes with a hint of the power that can shatter glass and burn out eyes. "Neither of you will touch him." 

"Castiel," Raphael starts to say. 

At the exact same time, Dean says, "If they can help." 

Dean stops and Raphael stops, both of them looking at each other, Raziel looking between both of them. In the background, Haniel laughs. 

"All this arguing," Sandalphon says. Dean turns to look at her, nearly falls over with how fast he moves. Her eyes are clear, full of sorrow and a presence barely leashed. "Sam is pure. Castiel has already placed an aegis of protection around him. Enough." 

Raziel pouts but nods, sits down on the couch with a sigh and puts her feet up. Raphael nods at Castiel, a clear sign of submission, and sits down again on the edge of the bed, one hand outstretched to Sandalphon. 

Haniel perches next to Raziel, says, "Oh, fascinating," and picks up a book, hands it to Raziel. She runs her fingers down the cover of the _Raziel HaMalach_ and Dean realises he has a golden opportunity here to ask all sorts of questions. He's too distracted by whatever Raphael's doing, though, can _feel_ the waves of heat shimmering out from her hand and toward Sandalphon, to think of any. 

The room is quiet for a few minutes, Raziel turning pages of her book, Haniel playing with Raziel's hair. Raphael keeps doing whatever she's doing, until she finally puts her hand down, lurches forward with the release of pressure. 

Castiel stands, asks, "Well? Raphael?" 

"I have healed all I can," Raphael says, "but her power is still blocked. I cannot unlock whatever Lilith did. Sandalphon must do that herself." 

Raphael gets up, goes to sit down on the chair near Raziel and Haniel. Castiel takes her place on the bed, staring at Sandalphon but not reaching out to touch her. Dean looks between the four angels and then at Sam. 

"Let's go for a walk," Dean suggests. Sam shifts, meets glances with Sandalphon. "Come on, Sam." 

Sandalphon nods so Sam does as well, gets out of bed and leaves with Dean. 

\--

Sam's eyes are glassy when they walk out of the room. They're mostly clear by the time they go outside the front door and sit on the steps. It's a cold day for this area, this time of year, but Dean doesn't care. All he can see are pain lines starting at the corner of Sam's eyes and radiating outward. 

"Hey," he says, softly. Guilt's churning his stomach; he elbows Sam then, worried, asks, "That didn't hurt, did it? God, Sam, I'm sorry." 

"It's all right," Sam says, just as soft. He crosses his arms, hunches in. "It doesn't hurt all the time. Seems like we trade off; Sandalphon's got it now." 

Dean hums, looks out over the centre's land. Sam's quiet so Dean finally asks, "About Sandalphon. Why did Lilith go after her? And why does her word mean more than Raphael's or Raziel's? The stuff in your folder, all of them are archangels, too." 

Sam nods, looks down at his hands. "Sandalphon is the angel who takes the prayers of the faithful to God," he says. "The only one who outranks her is the Metatron. Castiel told me." He stops, shifts just enough to peer between his bangs to look at Dean. "You aren't. You aren't mad, are you? If I talk about Castiel, I mean." 

Dean sighs, can't help it. He looks down at his own hands, then up again, focuses on the line of trees at the edge of the property. "No," he finally answers. "I'm not mad. A little jealous, maybe." 

Sam leans on Dean, tilts his head and rests it on Dean's shoulder. Dean moves, lets an arm wind around Sam's shoulders, pull his brother closer. 

"You don't have a reason to be jealous," Sam says, almost too soft for Dean to hear. 

Dean frowns, looks down at his brother; eyes tracing out strands of Sam's hair. He squeezes Sam tighter, a little closer, and asks, "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Sam shakes his head. Dean waits, knows that if Sam didn't want to talk about this, he wouldn't have brought it up to begin with. Eventually his patience is rewarded; Sam shifts in Dean's hold and says, "Castiel's. Castiel's different, Dean. But you." He pauses, finally says, "You're different, too." 

A flush of heat runs through Dean's body, head to toe. The tone Sam said that in, he's not sure what it means but it settles the worry in Dean's stomach, the tension he's been feeling ever since Castiel showed up and gave them this mission. 

Dean weighs whether he should push this, decides not to. He leans over, rests his chin on Sam's head. "You're different, too, shortbus." 

\--

"Castiel says she's one of the seals," Sam says once long, quiet minutes have passed. He doesn't move. "One of the biggest. You wanted me to tell you how she could be less of an angel than the rest," he says, an apparent change of subject. 

Dean makes a noise of assent and Sam shifts but doesn't move away from where he's been leaning against Dean. 

"The others, they come down to earth in an insubstantial form," Sam explains. "Like demons with the smoke, right? They need a host so they can take physical form. Sandalphon's. She. I'm not sure how she does, only that it hurts, but she can _change_ , somehow, and come down as herself. Dean, that woman in there? It isn't a host with Sandalphon inside. It's _Sandalphon_ and her powers are locked up tight enough to make her human." 

That takes some time to sink in. "So, what," Dean says, once he's wrapped his mind around the concept. "Lilith gets her to sin in human form and that breaks a seal?"

"All she has to do is get back to heaven." Sam sounds -- Dean's not sure how Sam sounds, what sort of emotion is lurking in his brother's voice. "But she's fair game until then. Raphael can't figure out how to unlock her power; Sandalphon said she can't remember. Until she can and until she goes back to heaven, all it takes is one misstep and the seal's broken." 

Dean licks his lips, tries to swallow past a dry throat. "And she falls. Shit." 

Sam lets out a breath. "I'm sorry," he says. "I. I don' know what's happening. Castiel's said all these things about mirrors, about her and me, and he's not acting like he hates me anymore. Dean. What's going on?" 

Dean tightens his hold on his brother. "I wish I knew, Sammy." 

Sam snorts. "It's Sam, jerk."

"Some things don't change," Dean mutters. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, "Bitch." 

\--

How long they sit there, Dean doesn't know. At some point, Sam makes a noise deep in his throat, burrows into Dean as if he thinks he might be able to fit inside of Dean's skin if he just tries hard enough, digs deep enough. 

"Dude, what's wrong?" Dean asks. He leans back from Sam to look at his brother's face, freezes when Sam lets loose with a pained whimper, one that better suits an animal caught in some kind of trap. Without thinking, he grabs Sam, hands on Sam's cheeks, bodies pressed up tight against one another. "Tell me what's wrong. _Sam_."

"Hurts," Sam whispers. "It's so big and it hurts, it doesn't fit. Dean, make it stop, please make it stop." 

Mercy comes out of the house, stops abruptly when she sees them sitting there. Sam doesn't move but Dean clears his throat, mind working overtime to come up with a reason that doesn't sound implausible. Mercy holds up her hands as if to say she doesn't care. "Well, hey, you two. Castiel sent me to corral you, said something about the woman you brought in? I'm not sure but he said you'd know and I'll never doubt an angel of the Lord on his word."

As soon as she finishes talking, Sam stands up, races past her into the house. 

"'Scuse us," Dean murmurs on the brink of civility as he does the same. 

\--

Dean can hear Sandalphon before they get past the foyer. The air is thrumming with power and echoing with sobs and choking screams. Uriel's in the hallway, blocking their path; Sam lifts a hand and the angel goes flying, ends up pinned against the wall. Dean doesn't slow down to gloat, just follows his brother. The door to Sandalphon's room is closed and Sam lifts his hand again. Dean ducks as shattered pieces of wood spiral in every direction. Sam doesn't stop, just races to the bed and throws himself on it, clinging to Sandalphon as if he'll die otherwise. 

Dean stops, out of breath, at the foot of the bed, leg shooting out pain that throbs in time to his pulse, and glares at Castiel for an explanation. 

Castiel says, "I do not know what happened," and looks at Raphael, sitting on the foot of the bed. 

The angel of healing shrugs. "It's going to take time." 

"Time, half of a time, and time again," Raziel says, from where she's still sitting on the couch. Dean turns, looks at her with a raised eyebrow, and Raziel grins up at him over her book. She doesn't say anything else, though. 

Dean eyes Haniel, leaning back and looking as if he doesn't have a care in the world, then turns back to Raphael. 

"Dean's hurt," Sam says. The words are muffled, Sandalphon still hanging on to Sam, but Sam shifts, looks up at Raphael. "A hellhound. You can heal him." 

"I can," Raphael says. "But I am not sure that I should." 

Sam glares and Sandalphon straightens up, glares at Raphael as well. Dean raises an eyebrow, glances over at Castiel and can't put a word to the look Castiel has on his face. 

"The faithful have prayed for him," Sandalphon says, pressing the issue. "I have heard them. They." She stops, trailing off, and her eyes turn glassy as she seems to be listening to something else. "They're singing. Can you hear them?" 

With a hum of agreement, Sam strokes Sandalphon's hair, moves a curl of it behind one of her ears. 

Castiel and Raphael exchange glances; Raziel moves and Dean watches as she leans forward, the book forgotten and tossed on to Haniel's lap. Raziel's eyes gleam as she asks Sam, "You can hear them? All the time?" 

Sam doesn't answer. Sandalphon says, absently, "Of course. He is my mirror." 

"Of course," Raziel murmurs. 

"And Dean has been chosen by our Father, no matter how Uriel rages against the elevation of humanity," Haniel adds, still looking for all the world as if he's sleeping. "If anyone not of our rank deserves healing, would it not be a chosen?" 

Dean frowns, looks between the angels. It's like they're all speaking in code; he has no idea what half of all this means. 

Raphael stands, moves to face Dean. She studies him, then nods. "Yes. It would." Without anything else, any words or any kind of warning, she lifts a hand and presses three fingertips to Dean's forehead. 

Dean's world goes black. Just before he loses consciousness, he can hear Sam yelling in a language that makes no sense.

\--

Dean wakes up fast, heart racing. He can't help touching his stomach, expecting to feel hellhound claw marks and bite imprints. There's nothing, though, and it's only when he's starting to calm down that he sees Castiel sitting on the couch across the room, watching him. Dean blinks, starts to remember. Raphael touched him, Sam was yelling; he throws the covers back and moves to sit up. His leg doesn't twinge at all. Dean reaches down, feels smooth skin under his jeans. 

"Raphael is thorough," Castiel says. "She would not leave any imperfection in one she healed." 

"What," Dean starts to say, then stops. He looks at his arms, tries to find the faint scratches left from Las Vegas and can't. "Oh." He swallows, meets Castiel's gaze again. "Where's Sam?" 

Castiel sits back but his posture's still perfect and looks highly uncomfortable. "As Sandalphon and your brother had taken your bed, I brought you to theirs. The human body is not meant to contain the full touch of Raphael. With my mark still on you, you survived. You needed rest, though."

"Rest," Dean spits. "All anyone says is that everyone needs _rest_ , that and time. Cas, this is bullshit, okay? I'm crap at sitting around and doing nothing and we don't _have_ time, not with the seals. Can't I. Isn't there something else I can be doing, something _useful_ , instead of playing house?" 

The angel stands and the look he gives Dean is one of supreme disappointment. "Is taking care of Sam nothing, to you? What could be more important than to be with your brother?"

Dean sits there, stunned at the chastisement buried under Castiel's words, and watches as the angel leaves. He feels like he's just been sideswiped; he thinks of the Impala and feels like he can understand what she went through, t-boned by the possessed truck driver. Castiel's words, his quiet rebuke, have blown into Dean and torn him apart, shone a light onto the wide, gaping holes that hell tore into him and that he's been using as an excuse ever since Castiel brought him back. 

Castiel's _right_ ; there's never been anything or anyone as important as Sam and here he's just been, what, completely ignoring that? Forgetting it under the memories of hell, calling Sam weak and dependent on a demon and insane for doing what Dean couldn't, when Sam died. Sam's been living, and living _alone_ , even with Dean back, and Dean's been letting him. 

Dean feels an uneasy sense of guilt, now, one that he's not going to ignore this time and try to trade for resentment or anger or the bottom of a bottle. He stands, stalks out of his room and goes into the one next door, noticing but not mentioning the new door to the room. All six angels, Sandalphon, Castiel, Uriel, and the three new ones, are inside and they stare at him but don't say a thing as Dean stops at the foot of the bed and says, "Sam? Can I talk to you?" 

Sam looks at his brother but doesn't move until Sandalphon pushes at him, humming a wordless order. Then Sam unfolds himself, stands up with a look of resignation in his eyes that turns Dean's stomach. 

\--

They walk to the other end of the hallway, into a glassed-in sunroom teeming with plants and flowers. Mercy's in there, watering one of the plants in the corner; she rocks back on her heels when she seems them. Her eyes flick between Dean and Sam and she finally grins, says, "Enjoy the sun," before standing up and moving to leave. 

"We can go somewhere else," Dean offers, suddenly feeling a little guilty for forgetting the people who are hosting them, people who are somehow less invasive than any motel owner Dean's known and yet have filled their home with a more pervasive atmosphere.

"Nah," Mercy says. "I have to go and get more water, anyway. Might as well get started on dinner if I'm going back to the kitchen." 

She leaves, whistling a hymn, and Sam sits down first, settling into a white wicker chair that creaks under him as he shifts and gets comfortable. Dean stands, stares out of the glass for a few minute before turning and looking Sam over. He's lost weight; Sam's put on some muscle but his hips are slimmer, the angles in his face more pronounced. The circles under Sam's eyes are still there and Sam's hunched over, tense as he waits. 

"I'm holding you back," he says, before Dean can say anything. Dean aches to hear the tone of Sam's voice, just as crushed as Dean feels, just as bruised and broken. "I know. You should leave me. You should. You'd be better off without me." 

Dean blinks, frowns and steps forward, freezes when Sam closes in on himself. That's what Sam said when he left for Stanford, seven years and a million lifetimes ago. Only now, only after hell and their father's death and Sam's destiny and angels and demons, does Dean understand. Before, he thought it was Sam throwing something in his face, something slick and sour. Now, now Dean realises. Sam _believes_ what he's saying. 

Dean's mind shuts down and all he can say, stupidly, is, "Sam. What. _What_? Dude, you can't really think that. Really?"

"I'm not fast enough," Sam says. "I'm not good enough. I'm not even _human_ enough."

Before hell, Dean would never have caught the hatred and loathing in Sam's voice -- or, he might have caught them but he never would have understood that the hate, the anger, the fear, Sam's directing it at himself, not Dean. Sam's never spit those words in Dean's direction, no matter how many times Dean thought Sam had. 

The guilt Dean feels, that's as old as the memory of their mother's death but the sorrow, that isn't. All the years they've wasted, all the time, all the words and the fighting, and it's all because Dean never _really_ listened to his little brother. 

Dean shrugs, says, helplessly, "You've always been good enough for me." He shifts on his feet, uncomfortable; words have been Sam's strength, not Dean's, and Dean's never had much time for emotions when there were things to hunt and new places to blend in to. He can say what he thinks people want to hear, but Sam's not people and when Dean eventually gets to leave this loony-bin, Sam'll be coming with him. 

Still, even as Dean's searching for something else to say, Sam looks up at him. His eyes are bright. "You," Sam says. "You mean that? Really? You're not just saying it?" 

" _Dude_ ," Dean says, instilling everything he can into that one word and praying it's enough. 

Sam sniffs, looks down again but not before Dean sees a hint of smile on Sam's lips. 

\--

They sit in the sunroom for a while, track the motion of clouds across the sky. Neither of them say anything but it's a good silence, one that doesn't need words to be full of conversation. Mercy'd dropped off a couple glasses of lemonade and a plate of cookies, and Dean's stretched out, feet up on a wicker table. Sam looks calm, looks like he might even be close to relaxed. It's a good look for him, one Dean's pleased to see. It's been too long.

The silence is broken with a knock on the doorframe. Dean leans, sees Raziel leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on Sam. 

"We didn't want to disturb you two but Raphael said Sandalphon needs a nap and she won't go to sleep unless she can talk to you first," Raziel says to Sam before adding, "Well. We think that's what Sandalphon meant. Castiel seemed pretty sure, anyway." 

Sam glances over at Dean before he moves. Dean thinks maybe Sam would've gotten up first, looked at Dean second, even just this morning. It sends a pleased thrill through his body that he didn't quite expect. 

Raziel watches Sam move past her but doesn't go to follow him. Instead, she perches on the arm of Sam's chair and looks at Dean. 

"Castiel told me about the last couple missions," she says. "I was curious. He said you were there when he asked Sam to help rescue Sandalphon."

Dean nods, says, "Yeah, we were together. Why?" 

"I find it curious," Raziel says, slowly, "that you never asked about that. About what Castiel said to try and convince your brother. That you have not asked why he was willing to sacrifice his soul for you but would not for another."

"It's because we didn't know anything about Sandalphon," Dean says. "And because Uriel's an asshole."

Raziel starts to say, "You have not," but stops as Sam stands in the doorway. 

"She's asleep," Sam says, looking between his brother and Raziel. "What's going on?" 

"We know your deepest desires, Samuel," Raziel says. She stands, pats Sam on the shoulder once and then looks back at Dean. "Perhaps it is time your brother understands the depths of your devotion to him. After all, he went to hell in your place and you are willing to do the same for him. What is a little matter of human law against love?" 

Sam's pale, gaping, as Raziel leans forward and kisses Sam on the forehead. "You. What?" 

"What he said," Dean echoes, standing and facing Raziel. "What's going on? What are you _talking_ about?" 

Raziel smiles, very faintly, and says, "I am Revelation, Dean Winchester, and your brother loves you more than he loves anything or anyone else."

The angel leaves, humming as she walks away. Dean shakes his head, looks at Sam. Sam's biting his lower lip, looking away, and the colour's still gone from his cheeks.

"Sam? What was she saying, huh?" Dean asks. He's reeling, has no _clue_ what's going on. 

"What Raziel said," Sam says, shrugging. He still isn't looking at Dean. "I. I love you. That's all." 

Dean frowns, takes a step closer to Sam and watches as Sam tenses. "Well, duh. You're my brother." 

Sam swallows, closes the distance between them, and gives Dean the puppy-dog eyes he perfected when he was five, along with a resigned, bitter smile that doesn't at all match. "No, Dean," Sam says, quietly. "I _love_ you." He leans closer, brushes his lips over Dean's so softly that Dean thinks he imagined it. "I'm sorry," Sam says, and then he slips away, leaves before Dean can stop him. 

Alone in the sunroom, Dean lifts his hand, runs his fingers over his lips. "Huh." He really, really did not see that coming.

\--

Half an hour and a _hell_ of a lot of thought later, Dean finally leaves the sunroom in search of his brother. He gets halfway down the hall to their pair of rooms, then stops, scanning the flock of angels in the hallway. Uriel's arguing with Haniel, Raphael looks frantic, and Raziel's got her arms crossed as she's talking to Castiel. 

"What's going on?" Dean asks Raphael. 

The other two conversations stop as Raphael says, "We can't find Sam."

" _What_?" Dean half-growls. "What do you mean, you can't find Sam? He's not in with Sandalphon?" 

Uriel's expression makes Dean feel sick, though the words the angel says make him want to _kill_ the bastard. "Your brother is using one of Sandalphon's gifts. He may be her mirror but he should not be using an angelic gift against angels. Especially with his," Uriel pauses, settles on, "proclivities," and says it with such disgust that Dean's two seconds away from punching him in the face, angel or not.

"Samuel is under my protection," Castiel says. The words echo with power and Dean's ears ring. "Better he use one of our sister's talents than one granted by hell." 

"Better he be _dead_ ," Uriel hisses. 

Raziel straightens up at that, steps closer to Castiel as if she's backing him up, saying, "No one is killing Samuel Winchester. He is under Castiel's protection, made such by Castiel's free will, and he is Sandalphon's mirror. You can hate him, Uriel, but that's _it_." 

No one's paying attention to him, not now that they're all arguing again, so Dean slips into Sandalphon's room. He comes up short when she sees that she's out of bed and standing up, one palm pressed against the window. 

"Hey," he says, softly, closing the door and shutting out the sound of the angels fighting. 

"He's out there," Sandalphon says. She sounds sad, closed in. 

Without thinking about what he's doing, Dean goes over to her, wraps one arm around her shoulder and pulls her close. She's tiny, doesn't feel as if she weighs a thing, and she's still fragile after her stay with Lilith, but she leans against him and cuddles in. 

"He's out there," she says again. "He's sad. And there's someone else, too."

A wave of jealous worry sweeps through Dean's belly, has acid rising in the back of his throat. "We should go get 'im," Dean says. Sandalphon straightens, looks at him, and Dean turns as well, eyeing the door. He can hear the five outside still arguing, Uriel yelling and Raziel just as loud, Castiel implacable and trying to get a word in edgewise. 

They won't be going anywhere that way. Dean gives Sandalphon a grin and says, "Lucky we're on the ground floor, aren't we," before opening the window and kicking out the screen. He'll fix it later.

He jumps down, catches Sandalphon and lowers her down carefully, peeking over the windowsill to make sure no one heard them. It sounds like they got away with it, so he twines his fingers in with Sandalphon's and lets her lead him across the lawn, towards the trees and, hopefully, Sam. 

\--

Dean doesn't see Sam, not until they're almost on top of him. Sam's a good hundred feet into the trees and he's laying on the ground, his head in Ruby's lap. Ruby's stroking Sam's hair but she stops as soon as Sandalphon steps around a tree; Sam tenses in much the same way as Dean follows the angel. 

"I know you," Sandalphon murmurs, the words directed at Ruby, "but I. From where?" 

"Her name's Ruby," Dean says, trying to swallow at least part of his anger. Ruby kept Sam alive while Dean was gone; she's taught him things that Dean hates the idea of but gets that they gave Sam a weapon more consistent than a knife or a gun. "She's a demon."

Sam sits up and turns, so that he's pressed shoulder-to-shoulder against Ruby. He looks like he's waiting for something; Dean offers Sam a hand and feels like someone's punched him in the gut as Sam flinches. 

"Sam," Dean breathes. "Dude. I just thought you might wanna go back inside. S'all." 

"You don't make a habit of thinking," Ruby says, "especially when it comes to your brother. Why do you think he came out here in the first place?"

Dean glares, snaps back, "Oh, because you've been out here the whole time, pining for him? Why the fuck are you here?"

Ruby stands up, brushes dirt and leaves off of her jeans. "None of your business, Dean. But I can tell where I'm not wanted." 

"Obviously not," Dean says. "You're still stalking us." 

"You have," Ruby says, fists clenched at her sides, "a _very_ high opinion of yourself, Dean. Ever think about telling Sam everything that happened down in the pit, huh? How long did you last? I heard it wasn't very long at _all_ ; even I made it longer than you did, Dean." 

Dean stares at the demon, hatred for her, for what she is and where she comes from, boiling up inside of him. He wants nothing more than to rip her from that body and set her on fire, kill her for good, once and for all. 

"Ruby," Sam murmurs. He puts a hand on her ankle; Dean's ready to scream but then Sam says, "I think you should go." 

It's good advice but Dean doesn't relax until Ruby's gone and Sandalphon's wiped the confused look from her face. He takes a deep breath before asking, "Did she say why she was here?" 

Sam shakes his head slowly. "No. But I think she was checking up on me. I. She said something about Samhain." 

"Samhain," Sandalphon echoes. "I know that name." Her forehead furrows as she adds, "I knew who that was, too. I think. Maybe. But I think she used to have a different name." Sandalphon sighs, then says, "I'm tired. I think we should go back to bed." 

"You could use a nap," Sam agrees, and holds out his hands to Dean. 

Dean pulls Sam up, pulls a little too much, and Sam overbalances, ends up with his hands on Dean's chest and his weight supported by the solid planting of Dean's feet in soil. 

"Sorry," Sam murmurs, stepping back. His cheeks are flushed and he moves away too fast for Dean to say anything, to try and stop him. Sam takes Sandalphon's hand and says, absently, "She _did_ have a different name before." 

\--

Dean leads them inside and stops when he sees Uriel standing in front of the rooms. Sandalphon, though, runs past him, heading for Castiel. She hugs Castiel, starts to babble about something too fast for Dean to follow, but then she trails off and turns to Uriel. 

"What are you doing?" she asks, and Castiel presses closer to her, as if he can read fear in every line of her body. 

"Something," Uriel says, "that should have been done a long time ago." 

Uriel pushes Haniel aside and stalks up the hallway. With every step, he glows brighter and brighter, and there's the outline of something in his hand, a crack of thunder from outside. 

Dean's watching, can't _not_ , but he doesn't move when Sam pushes at him from behind. "No, Sam," Dean says. "You're staying right there. If Uriel wants to get you, he's going to have to go through me first."

Sandalphon's giving Uriel a look, one of dawning recognition, but Dean's focused on his brother. 

"You don't need to protect me, Dean," Sam's saying, in and amongst other things, other _stupid_ things. "Please, not for me, not when he's right. I'm not. Dean, come on. I'm not afraid." 

Uriel's not far away now and the thing in his hand, it's a sword, flaming with white fire. He raises his hand and points the sword at Sam. 

"Samuel Winchester," Uriel says, and the walls shake with thunder. "You have been found wanting." 

"No," Sandalphon says. Her voice is faint, almost a whisper, but everyone stops moving, breathing. "No," she says again, this time stronger. Dean watches as Sandalphon steps to the middle of the hallway, in front of Dean and facing Uriel. "No, Uriel. _You_ have been found wanting. You are guilty of rebellion and murder and falsehood." 

Uriel sneers, gestures with his sword. Fire sprays outwards, towards Sandalphon. Castiel moves but it's going to be too late, won't help in time, but then the fire freezes and drops to the ground, melting into nothing. 

"The prayer of the righteous, the sacrifice of the willing, the love of life," Sandalphon says. "You have never understood that humans are better at all three than we are, Uriel. Samuel is under Castiel's protection and Dean is the chosen of the Father. Quit this path and beg for forgiveness." 

"No. I will _not_ ," Uriel says. He makes another swing of the sword and the entire hallway turns to fire, flames eating up the air and turning everything red-hot. 

Light fills Dean's vision, light and heat, but then he realises: the heat isn't coming from the fire, and neither is the light. Both are emanating outwards from Sandalphon and they're so strong that Dean can't keep his eyes open. He can't stand, either, and finds himself on his knees a moment later, eyes scrunched closed, as a wave of heat and light floods over and around him. 

\--

Dean waits to re-assess the situation until the air's cooled and his eyes aren't getting overloaded with light through his eyelids. It takes a while, longer than he's strictly comfortable with, but when he opens his eyes, Uriel's gone. Uriel's gone and Sandalphon is _different_. It only takes a second for Dean to understand. 

Whatever just happened, it was enough for Sandalphon to unlock her powers. She's an angel again, a full and complete angel, nothing human left in her. He's worried about that, at first, until he sees Castiel staring at Sandalphon like she's something precious, something sacred. 

Dean shifts, sees Sam, behind him, on his knees as well. He's looking at Sandalphon the same way. With some quiet maneuvering, Dean's resting on his heels next to Sam, both of them staring as Sandalphon reaches out and takes Castiel's hands. 

"It is good to have you back," Castiel says. He moves closer to her, rests his forehead against hers. "We have missed you. _I_ have missed you." 

"Castiel," she says, "I was never gone."

They step back from each other and Dean blinks to see that the hallway's empty of the other angels. Not only that but it looks untouched, as if Dean imagined the fire and heat that flew through a couple minutes ago. 

He's torn from thinking about that when Sandalphon and Castiel turn, in sync, to look at him and Sam. The two of them move in sync, as well; walk over to them and Sandalphon drops to her knees in front of Sam as Castiel watches. 

Sandalphon opens her arms but Sam doesn't move. Dean can't see the entire expression on his brother's face but Sandalphon's eyes fill with tears. She looks saddened beyond belief. 

"Sam? Do you not trust me as you once did?" Sandalphon asks. "We once sought comfort in each other's arms. You kept me safe when I was unable to do so myself. I wish to return the favour." 

Dean's not sure how Sam's going to take that; he's not sure how he feels about, if he's honest with himself. He glances at his brother and can't help raising an eyebrow at the stubborn look on Sam's face. 

"Don't need any favours," Sam says. "Just Dean." 

Sandalphon's crying, now, but Dean doesn't care. Faced with an offer from an angel, one that Sam's been curled around for days, Sam only wants him. Dean feels flush with pride, that and a possessiveness that scares him, it runs so hot and deep through his blood. 

Dean stands up, helps Sam stand, and the two step around the kneeling angels, head for the bedroom.


	4. Epilogue

Dean rubs his forehead as the couch he's sitting on starts floating. Again. 

"Sam?" he says. "Last time you put it down in thirty-five seconds. Think you can beat that?" 

Sam, sitting cross-legged on the bed, looks up from the piece of paper he's been tracing angelic script on and tilts his head. "Yes," he says, firmly, and proceeds to stare at the couch for two minutes before it thumps to the ground. Sam blinks, looks at Dean, and says, "No." 

Dean shrugs. "We'll get there." 

It's been five weeks since Sandalphon regained her knowledge, five weeks since she banished Uriel from earth, and five weeks since Sam went completely batshit insane. He's doing better now, finally, but he still won't let any of the angels get within sight of him, won't even look at the family running this place, and he still freaks out if Dean's out of his vision for more than five minutes. It's made life interesting, that's for damn sure, and that was even before Thanksgiving and Mercy's kids coming home for the holiday. 

Oh, not to mention the damned telekinesis and everything else. 

Dean sets his feet back on the coffee table, avoiding the papers littered all over it. Apparently, from what Sandalphon and Castiel and Raziel can guess, Sam's connection to Sandalphon got pulled to hell -- _heaven_ \-- and back when she reverted back to being a full angel. Not only did it break his mind, it tore loose every ounce of control or block he had over all of his gifts. The death visions were one thing, but Sam's telekinetic as well and trying to train that control back into Sam has been a long, mostly pointless project, especially with the addition of the angelic gifts now, as well. 

Sam's turned his attention back to the script he's writing and Dean smells smoke before he sees it. He gets up, right away, and blows on Sam's piece of paper, putting out the fire before it can even start. 

"Sorry," Sam says, and his eyes start to shimmer with tears. "Dean, I'm sorry, I'm trying, I _am_." 

Dean sits down, pulls Sam close and takes a deep breath. "I know, Sam. It's okay." 

\--

The door's open, has been for half an hour. Sam hasn't noticed, as asleep as he is, but Dean's been sending paper airplanes out into the hallway, trying to get someone's attention. Finally, he sees a shadow on the ground, one with wings, and then Castiel's peering into the room. He's being cautious about it, too; there's still a bruise across the bridge of his nose from the last time Sam used telekinesis and slammed the door right in the angel's face. It should have healed but Sam combined it with something else, something angelic, and even Raphael couldn’t do anything about it. 

Castiel gives Dean a look and Dean stands up, keeping a careful eye on his brother. Sam twitches as Dean moves away but doesn't wake up, so Dean moves over to the door and leans against the frame. 

"He is doing better," Castiel says. His eyes are shadowed, full of sorrow. "We only felt him access his angelic gifts twice today." 

"And the floating stuff, that's getting better, too," Dean says. "Only once and I think he noticed before I did." 

The angel hums and asks, "Will he allow me entry? Or Sandalphon? She has been waiting to speak with him." 

Dean can only shrug. "I don't know." 

Castiel nods at that, then says, carefully and as if he's not trying to promise anything, "Sandalphon believes she may have found a way to assist him. One of our brethren experienced much the same with a human a few millennia ago. She has spoken with him at length and. It might not help, Dean, but she believes it is worth the attempt." 

"I'll ask him," Dean says. 

They stand there, in silence, until Dean hears his brother's breathing change. They both move away from the door and it's a good thing, too, because it slams shut a moment later, glowing sigils of script burning their way into the wood. 

Sam's doing it on instinct, Dean knows, but he still sighs and closes his eyes, wishing, with all of his might, that they'd both just told Castiel and Uriel to fuck off that night in Texas. 

And damn it, he owes Mercy _another_ door now. 

\--

It takes another two weeks for Dean to convince Sam to let the angels inside. They're both standing at the door but it's Sam that reaches out and turns the handle, opens the door. He takes a couple quick steps back at the sight of Sandalphon and Castiel, and the door shivers and shakes like it wants to move, but Sam reins it in and goes to perch on the edge of the bed, hands laced together on his lap. 

Sandalphon moves first, goes right on over to Sam and sits down next to him, half-facing him with one leg dangling off the side of the bed. 

"I have missed you," she says, softly, as Castiel steps inside and stands next to Dean. Sam doesn't say anything. "Dean has told us that you have been doing well with your gifts. I would have helped you if you had asked, Sam. They aren't things that anyone should be forced to deal with alone."

Dean bites back a snort. Sam suddenly having encyclopaedic knowledge of angelic history and script was one thing, but the popping in and out, the glowing, the faint echo of power to his voice, the tuning-in to angel radio, and the ability to suddenly call a flaming sword? Those were entirely different. 

"I had Dean," Sam says, and he moves enough to let his eyes flick over to Dean. "We did okay." 

Sandalphon reaches over and places her hand on top of Sam's. Sam stiffens and the air heats up; thankfully, nothing else happens. "More than okay," she says. "Will you let me help you now, with what little you have left to do?" 

Sam looks down and he mumbles something too soft for Dean to make out. 

Sandalphon gasps, though, gasps and wraps an arm around Sam's shoulders, pulls him close. "Oh, Sam," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of Sam's head. "Of course I did. Your prayers were balm to the soul of the Father. Your heart is pure and your prayers were offered with the faith of one thousand men, always for the benefit of others and the edification of mankind's belief."

Castiel shuts down, just stands there like he's carved out of stone. Dean knows the feeling, can't bring himself to move. Not only is Sandalphon's voice thrumming with the sound Dean's come to realise is angel for being completely truthful, _what_ she's saying is wonderful and difficult to hear at the same time. Sam's _pure_ , despite the demon blood, despite what Uriel has been saying since he met Sam, despite Castiel's instructions to Dean. 

Or maybe that's why Castiel was so focused on having Sam give up using his powers. Purity must be hard to come by these days, even for angels. Ruining that could be key to something bigger than Dean knows. 

Sam stares at Sandalphon with big, watery eyes. Tears spill over the edge of his eyes slowly, then faster and faster until he's sobbing, alligator tears tracing down his cheeks and staining his clothes. He bends almost in half, puts his head in Sandalphon's lap and weeps as if his heart is breaking.

"The love of the Father is never-ending," Sandalphon coos, almost a song. "And His love covers you like no other, for you are alone in your talents, alone in your humility and struggle and gifts. He has blessed you but He asks much of you; He will never leave you to struggle alone." 

Castiel moves at that, walks over to where Sam and Sandalphon are sitting as if he's walking towards something holy. He pauses at the edge of the bed, looks at Sandalphon and asks, voice gravel-rough and low, "The faith of a thousand men?" 

Sandalphon's eyes are deep and endless; Dean has to look away, steady himself, after the merest hint of eternity in the depths of her pupils. "Faithful and pure," Sandalphon says, not even glancing at Castiel. "His humanity is a beautiful thing." 

"We should not be surprised by the connection," Castiel says, half a question, searching for confirmation -- of what, Dean doesn't know. Sandalphon nods and Castiel's shoulders relax. He reaches out, lets his hand hover over Sam's head. When Sam doesn't react, Castiel throws Dean a look before settling his palm around the curve of Sam's skull, closing his eyes. 

Dean doesn't say anything, doesn't want to interrupt whatever moment the three of them are having. He watches and waits, no one moving except for Sam to cry and Sandalphon to stroke Sam's back the way a mother might. Jealousy is coursing through Dean but fear is making his feet stick to the floor; what Sandalphon said, what does it mean? 

Sam's crying tapers off into a hiccup, then a sniff, and then a deep breath slowly let out. Castiel opens his eyes and moves his hand away from Sam. The angel steps back and turns to Dean. "Comfort your brother," the angel says. He helps Sam sit up, doesn't say another word as Sam turns to Dean with bloodshot eyes and a runny nose, face red and splotchy. Sam has never looked more beautiful. 

"Dean," Sam says, voice just as watery as his eyes. "Dean?"

That's all it takes. Dean's across the room and on the bed in an instant, Sam gathered up in his arms the way he had to hold Sam after Cold Oak. Sam's heartbeat is strong, the light whuffs of his breath steady as Sam burrows his face into the curve of Dean's neck. 

This is the Sam that Dean remembers. This is the Sam who has always looked at Dean as if Dean can solve every problem on the face of the planet. It hits him with the force of a million heartbeats that this, this is the Sam that Dean loves. 

Dean tightens his hold on Sam. He won't let go. He won't _ever_ let go of Sam. 

Castiel nods when Dean looks up. Sandalphon is smiling. The birds, outside, are singing.


End file.
